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"This is the boy, your worship,"	Mr. Bumble	in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old	been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the	washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow	powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman,	his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud: "Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman." As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, "Mind what I told you, you young rascal!" Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?" "He doats on it, your worship," replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. "And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman. "If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship," replied Bumble. "And this man that's to be his master you, sir you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?" said the old gentleman. "When I says I will, I means I will," replied	tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly. "Come," said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; "Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver." It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already. On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him. There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud: "Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman." As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, "Mind what I told you, you young rascal!" Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?" "He doats on it, your worship," replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. "And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman. "If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship," replied Bumble. "And this man that's to be his master you, sir you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?" said the old gentleman. "When I says I will, I means I will," replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly. "You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man," said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. "I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer. "I have no doubt you are, my friend," replied the old gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand. It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory	himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon. In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way. "Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful," said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. "You're a going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver." "A prentice, sir!" said the child, trembling. "Yes, Oliver," said Mr. Bumble. "The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to "prentice" you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten! three pound ten, Oliver! seventy shillins one hundred and forty sixpences! and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can't love." As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly. "Come," said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; "Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver." "The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to "prentice" you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten! three pound ten, Oliver! seventy shillins one hundred and forty sixpences! and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can't love." As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly. "Come," said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; "Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver." It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already. On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him. There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud: "Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman." As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, "Mind what I told you, you young rascal!" Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?" "He doats on it, your worship," replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. "And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman. "If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship," replied Bumble. "And this man that's to be his master you, sir you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?" said the old gentleman. "When I says I will, I means I will," replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly. "You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man," said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. "I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer. "I have no doubt you are, my friend," replied the old gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand. It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate. The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect. "My boy!" said the old gentleman, "you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?" "Stand a little away from him, Beadle," said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. "Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid." Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room that they would starve him beat him kill him if they pleased rather than send him away with that dreadful man. "Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. "Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest." "Hold your tongue, Beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective. "I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. "Did your worship speak to me?" "Yes. Hold your tongue." Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly. "We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. "I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins: "I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child." "The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it." That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which,	he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him. There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud: "Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman." As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, "Mind what I told you, you young rascal!" Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?" "He doats on it, your worship," replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. "And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman. "If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship," replied Bumble. "And this man that's to be his master you, sir you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?" said the old gentleman. "When I says I will, I means I will," replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly. "You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man," said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. "I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer. "I have no doubt	Oliver Twist
he said.	No speaker	"Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you	and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for	sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor,	stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once	aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down	would be cowardly, he thought; and in this spirit he began to draw himself slowly back till, after a great deal of exertion, he had contrived to get his legs beyond the eaves, and there he rested, hesitating once more. Just then he heard voices below, and holding on by one hand, he rapidly drew up a few yards of the rope, making his leg take the place of another hand. There was a good deal of talking, and he caught the word "rope," but that was all. So he continued his toilsome ascent till he was able to grasp the edge of the skylight opening, up to which he dragged himself, and sat listening, astride, as he had been before the attempt was made. All was so still that he was tempted to slide down and escape for no sound suggested that any one was on the watch. But Jem! Poor Jem! It was like leaving him in the lurch. Still, he thought, if he did get away, he might give the alarm, and find help to save Jem from being taken away. "And if they came up and found me gone," he muttered, "they would take Jem off aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought	he strained over as far as he could without falling to hear the dull thud of his companion's fall. Thoughts fly fast, and in a moment of time Don had seen poor Jem lying crushed below, picked up, and had borne the news to his little wife. But before he had gone any further, the rope was drawn tight once more, and as he held it, there came to thrill his nerves three distinct jerks. "It's all right!" he panted; and grasped the rope with both hands. "Now then," he thought, "it only wants a little courage, and I can slide down and join him, and then we're free." Yes; but it required a good deal of resolution to make the venture. "Suppose Jem's weight had unwound the rope; suppose it should break; suppose--" "Oh, what a coward I am!" he muttered; and swinging his leg free, he lay upon his face for a moment, right upon the sloping tiles and then let the rope glide through his hands. It was very easy work down that slope, only that elbows and hands suffered, and sundry sounds suggested that waistcoat buttons were being torn off. But that was no moment for studying trifles; and what were waistcoat buttons to liberty? Another moment, and his legs were over the edge, and he was about to attempt the most difficult part of the descent, grasping beforehand, that as soon as he hung clear of the eaves, he should begin to turn slowly round. "Now for it," he said; and he was about to descend perpendicularly, when the rope was suddenly jerked violently. There was a loud ejaculation, and Jem's voice rose to where he hung. "No, no, Mas' Don. Back! Back! Don't come down." Then, as he hung, there came the panting and noise of a terrible struggle far below. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. PRISONERS AGAIN. Don's grasp tightened on the rope, and as he lay there, half on, half off the slope, listening, with the beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead, he heard from below shouts, the trampling of feet and struggling. "They've attacked Jem," he thought. "What shall I do? Go to his help?" Before he could come to a decision the noise ceased and all was perfectly still. Don hung there thinking. What should he do--slide down and try to escape, or climb back? Jem was evidently retaken, and to escape would be cowardly, he thought; and in this spirit he began to draw himself slowly back till, after a great deal of exertion, he had contrived to get his legs beyond the eaves, and there he rested, hesitating once more. Just then he heard voices below, and holding on by one hand, he rapidly drew up a few yards of the rope, making his leg take the place of another hand. There was a good deal of talking, and he caught the word "rope," but that was all. So he continued his toilsome ascent till he was able to grasp the edge of the skylight opening, up to which he dragged himself, and sat listening, astride, as he had been before the attempt was made. All was so still that he was tempted to slide down and escape for no sound suggested that any one was on the watch. But Jem! Poor Jem! It was like leaving him in the lurch. Still, he thought, if he did get away, he might give the alarm, and find help to save Jem from being taken away. "And if they came up and found me gone," he muttered, "they would take Jem off aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent. "I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being caught; but the rope was made strong enough, warn't it?" "Yes, but it was labour in vain." "Well, p'r'aps it was, sir; but I'm proud of that rope all the same. Oh!" Jem uttered a dismal groan. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt, sir! I just am hurt--horrible. 'Member when I fell down and the tub went over me?" "And broke your ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember." "Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of 'em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I'm just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas' Don; but that arn't the worst of it, because it won't hurt me. I'm a reg'lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse." "But are you in much pain now?" "I should just think I am, Mas' Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first." "Jem, my poor fellow!" groaned Don. "Now don't go on like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk." Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him. "It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't for my Sally. A man might just as well be pulling ropes as pushing casks and winding cranes." "But we shall have to fight, Jem." "Well, so long as it's fisties I don't know as I much mind, but if they expect me to chop or shoot anybody, they're	decision the noise ceased and all was perfectly still. Don hung there thinking. What should he do--slide down and try to escape, or climb back? Jem was evidently retaken, and to escape would be cowardly, he thought; and in this spirit he began to draw himself slowly back till, after a great deal of exertion, he had contrived to get his legs beyond the eaves, and there he rested, hesitating once more. Just then he heard voices below, and holding on by one hand, he rapidly drew up a few yards of the rope, making his leg take the place of another hand. There was a good deal of talking, and he caught the word "rope," but that was all. So he continued his toilsome ascent till he was able to grasp the edge of the skylight opening, up to which he dragged himself, and sat listening, astride, as he had been before the attempt was made. All was so still that he was tempted to slide down and escape for no sound suggested that any one was on the watch. But Jem! Poor Jem! It was like leaving him in the lurch. Still, he thought, if he did get away, he might give the alarm, and find help to save Jem from being taken away. "And if they came up and found me gone," he muttered, "they would take Jem off aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be	Don Lavington
"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."	Signor Carella	very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had	it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We	it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments,	Spiridione s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. "They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?" "He does deserve her," said all	of anxiety over her welfare, for she did not settle down in the house at all. But he was comforted by a welcome and unexpected visitor. As he was going one afternoon for the letters--they were delivered at the door, but it took longer to get them at the office--some one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the custom-house at Chiasso, whom he had not met for two years. What joy! what salutations! so that all the passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene. Spiridione s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. "They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?" "He does deserve her," said all the men. It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it. There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church--quite a good caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And	am young, am at all events a man, and know what is right." He found her still in the living-room, combing her hair, for she had something of the slattern in her nature, and there was no need to keep up appearances. "You must not go out alone," he said gently. "It is not safe. If you want to walk, Perfetta shall accompany you." Perfetta was a widowed cousin, too humble for social aspirations, who was living with them as factotum. "Very well," smiled Lilia, "very well" "--as if she were addressing a solicitous kitten. But for all that she never took a solitary walk again, with one exception, till the day of her death. Days passed, and no one called except poor relatives. She began to feel dull. Didn t he know the Sindaco or the bank manager? Even the landlady of the Stella d Italia would be better than no one. She, when she went into the town, was pleasantly received; but people naturally found a difficulty in getting on with a lady who could not learn their language. And the tea-party, under Gino s adroit management, receded ever and ever before her. He had a good deal of anxiety over her welfare, for she did not settle down in the house at all. But he was comforted by a welcome and unexpected visitor. As he was going one afternoon for the letters--they were delivered at the door, but it took longer to get them at the office--some one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the custom-house at Chiasso, whom he had not met for two years. What joy! what salutations! so that all the passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene. Spiridione s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. "They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?" "He does deserve her," said all the men. It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it. There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church--quite a good caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And though vermouth is barely alcoholic, Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it should not get into his head. They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments alternated curiously with gentle horseplay. But soon they put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke. "Tell me," said Spiridione--" "I forgot to ask--is she young?" "Thirty-three." "Ah, well, we cannot have everything." "But you would be surprised. Had she told me twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her." "Is she SIMPATICA?" (Nothing will translate that word.) Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence, "Sufficiently so." "It is a most important thing." "She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she addresses her inferiors without haughtiness." There was another silence. "It is not sufficient," said the other. "One does not define it thus." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Last month a German was smuggling cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused because I did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring happiness. NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and the fine for deception besides." "Do you gain much beyond your pay?" asked Gino,	the great question of our life has been solved, and the brotherhood of man is a reality. But is accomplished at the expense of the sisterhood of women. Why should you not make friends with your neighbour at the theatre or in the train, when you know and he knows that feminine criticism and feminine insight and feminine prejudice will never come between you? Though you become as David and Jonathan, you need never enter his home, nor he yours. All your lives you will meet under the open air, the only roof-tree of the South, under which he will spit and swear, and you will drop your h s, and nobody will think the worse of either. Meanwhile the women--they have, of course, their house and their church, with its admirable and frequent services, to which they are escorted by the maid. Otherwise they do not go out much, for it is not genteel to walk, and you are too poor to keep a carriage. Occasionally you will take them to the caffe or theatre, and immediately all your wonted acquaintance there desert you, except those few who are expecting and expected to marry into your family. It is all very sad. But one consolation emerges--life is very pleasant in Italy if you are a man. Hitherto Gino had not interfered with Lilia. She was so much older than he was, and so much richer, that he regarded her as a superior being who answered to other laws. He was not wholly surprised, for strange rumours were always blowing over the Alps of lands where men and women had the same amusements and interests, and he had often met that privileged maniac, the lady tourist, on her solitary walks. Lilia took solitary walks too, and only that week a tramp had grabbed at her watch--an episode which is supposed to be indigenous in Italy, though really less frequent there than in Bond Street. Now that he knew her better, he was inevitably losing his awe: no one could live with her and keep it, especially when she had been so silly as to lose a gold watch and chain. As he lay thoughtful along the parapet, he realized for the first time the responsibilities of monied life. He must save her from dangers, physical and social, for after all she was a woman. "And I," he reflected, "though I am young, am at all events a man, and know what is right." He found her still in the living-room, combing her hair, for she had something of the slattern in her nature, and there was no need to keep up appearances. "You must not go out alone," he said gently. "It is not safe. If you want to walk, Perfetta shall accompany you." Perfetta was a widowed cousin, too humble for social aspirations, who was living with them as factotum. "Very well," smiled Lilia, "very well" "--as if she were addressing a solicitous kitten. But for all that she never took a solitary walk again, with one exception, till the day of her death. Days passed, and no one called except poor relatives. She began to feel dull. Didn t he know the Sindaco or the bank manager? Even the landlady of the Stella d Italia would be better than no one. She, when she went into the town, was pleasantly received; but people naturally found a difficulty in getting on with a lady who could not learn their language. And the tea-party, under Gino s adroit management, receded ever and ever before her. He had a good deal of anxiety over her welfare, for she did not settle down in the house at all. But he was comforted by a welcome and unexpected visitor. As he was going one afternoon for the letters--they were delivered at the door, but it took longer to get them at the office--some one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the custom-house at Chiasso, whom he had not met for two years. What joy! what salutations! so that all the passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene. Spiridione s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. "They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?" "He does deserve her," said all the men. It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it. There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church--quite a good caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And though vermouth is barely alcoholic, Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it should not get into his head. They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments alternated curiously with gentle horseplay. But soon they put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke. "Tell me," said Spiridione--" "I forgot to ask--is she young?" "Thirty-three." "Ah, well, we cannot have everything." "But you would be surprised. Had she told me twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her." "Is she SIMPATICA?" (Nothing will translate that word.) Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence, "Sufficiently so." "It is a most important thing." "She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she addresses her inferiors without haughtiness." There was another silence. "It is not sufficient," said the other. "One does not define it thus." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Last month a German was smuggling cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused because I did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring happiness. NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and the fine for deception besides." "Do you gain much beyond your pay?" asked Gino, diverted for an instant. "I do not accept small sums now. It is not worth the risk. But the German was another matter. But listen, my Gino, for I am older than you and more full of experience. The person who understands us at first sight, who never irritates us, who never bores, to whom we can pour forth every thought and wish, not only in speech but in silence--that is what I mean by SIMPATICO." "There are such men, I know," said Gino. "And I have heard it said of children. But where will you find such a woman?" "That is true. Here you are wiser than I. SONO POCO SIMPATICHE LE DONNE. And the time we waste over them is much." He sighed dolefully, as if he found the nobility of his sex a burden. "One I have seen who may be so. She spoke very little, but she was a young lady--different to most. She, too, was English, the companion of my wife here. But Fra Filippo, the brother-in-law, took her back with him. I saw them start. He was very angry." Then he spoke of his exciting and secret marriage, and they made fun of the unfortunate Philip, who had travelled over Europe to stop it. "I regret though," said Gino, when they had finished laughing, "that I toppled him on to the bed. A great tall man! And when I am really amused I am often impolite." "You will never see him again," said Spiridione, who carried plenty of philosophy about him. "And by now the scene will have passed from his mind." "It sometimes happens that such things are recollected longest. I shall never see him again, of course; but it is no benefit to me that he should wish me ill. And even if he has forgotten, I am still sorry that I toppled him on to the bed." So their talk continued, at one moment full of childishness and tender wisdom, the next moment scandalously gross. The shadows of the terra-cotta pillars lengthened, and tourists, flying through the Palazzo Pubblico opposite, could observe how the Italians wasted time. The sight of tourists reminded Gino of something he might say. "I want to consult you since you are so kind as to take an interest in my affairs. My wife wishes to take solitary walks." Spiridione was shocked. "But I have forbidden her."	them as factotum. "Very well," smiled Lilia, "very well" "--as if she were addressing a solicitous kitten. But for all that she never took a solitary walk again, with one exception, till the day of her death. Days passed, and no one called except poor relatives. She began to feel dull. Didn t he know the Sindaco or the bank manager? Even the landlady of the Stella d Italia would be better than no one. She, when she went into the town, was pleasantly received; but people naturally found a difficulty in getting on with a lady who could not learn their language. And the tea-party, under Gino s adroit management, receded ever and ever before her. He had a good deal of anxiety over her welfare, for she did not settle down in the house at all. But he was comforted by a welcome and unexpected visitor. As he was going one afternoon for the letters--they were delivered at the door, but it took longer to get them at the office--some one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the custom-house at Chiasso, whom he had not met for two years. What joy! what salutations! so that all the passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene. Spiridione s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. "They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?" "He does deserve her," said all the men. It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it. There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church--quite a good caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And though vermouth is barely alcoholic, Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it should not get into his head. They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments alternated curiously with gentle horseplay. But soon they put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke. "Tell me," said Spiridione--" "I forgot to ask--is she young?" "Thirty-three." "Ah, well, we cannot have everything." "But you would be surprised. Had she told me twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her." "Is she SIMPATICA?" (Nothing will translate that word.) Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence, "Sufficiently so." "It is a most important thing." "She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she addresses her inferiors without haughtiness." There was another silence. "It is not sufficient," said the other. "One does not define it thus." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Last month a German was smuggling cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused because I did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring happiness. NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and the fine for deception besides." "Do you gain much beyond your pay?" asked Gino, diverted for an instant. "I do not accept small sums now. It is not worth the risk. But the German was another matter. But listen, my	Where Angels Fear To Tread
said he to the princess,	No speaker	ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom	distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under	the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty	object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been	except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of	portico, the princess came and threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects. The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house." "Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the	to the house, gave them an account of her having consulted the Bird, as they had agreed she should, and the answer he had given her; the objection she had raised to preparing a dish of cucumbers stuffed full of pearls, and how he had told her where to find this box. The sister and brothers formed many conjectures to penetrate into what the Bird could mean by ordering them to prepare such a dish; but after much conversation, they agreed to follow his advice exactly. As soon as the princess entered the house, she called for the head cook; and after she had given him directions about the entertainment for the emperor, said to him: "Besides all this, you must dress an extraordinary dish for the emperor's own eating, which nobody else must have anything to do with besides yourself. This dish must be of cucumbers stuffed with these pearls;" and at the same time she opened him the box, and showed him the jewels. The chief cook, who had never heard of such a dish, started back, and showed his thoughts by his looks; which the princess penetrating, said: "I see you take me to be mad to order such a dish, which one may say with certainty was never made. I know this as well as you; but I am not mad, and give you these orders with the most perfect recollection. You must invent and do the best you can, and bring me back what pearls are left." The cook could make no reply, but took the box and retired; and afterward the princess gave directions to all the domestics to have everything in order, both in the house and gardens, to receive the emperor. Next day the two princes went to the place appointed, and as soon as the emperor of Persia arrived the chase began and lasted till the heat of the sun obliged him to leave off. While Prince Bahman stayed to conduct the emperor to their house, Prince Perviz rode before to show the way, and when he came in sight of the house, spurred his horse, to inform the princess that the emperor was approaching; but she had been told by some servants whom she had placed to give notice, and the prince found her waiting ready to receive him. When the emperor had entered the court-yard and alighted at the portico, the princess came and threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects. The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house." "Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird." As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the Talking Bird, which your majesty may see in a cage in one of the windows of the hall we are approaching; and if you attend, you will perceive that his notes are sweeter than those of any of the other birds, even the nightingale's." The emperor went into the hall; and as the Bird continued singing, the princess raised her voice, and said, "My slave, here is the emperor, pay your compliments to him." The Bird left off singing that instant, when all the other birds ceased also, and said: "The emperor is welcome; God prosper him and prolong his life!" As the entertainment was served on the sofa near the window where the Bird was placed, the sultan replied, as he was taking his seat: "Bird, I thank you, and am overjoyed to find in you the sultan and king of birds." As soon as the emperor saw the dish of cucumbers set before him, thinking they were prepared in the best manner, he reached out his hand and took one; but when he cut it, was in extreme surprise to find it stuffed with pearls. "What novelty is this?" said he; "and with what design were these cucumbers stuffed thus with pearls, since pearls are not to be eaten?" He looked	from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history	Arabian Nights (1)
"None!"	Mary Cavendish	she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when	over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and	my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally	whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped	a Polish Jew, anyway." "A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the" she looked at him "stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman." Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide. "Mary!" "Well?" Her tone did not change. The pleading died out of his voice. "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?" "If I choose." "You defy me?" "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in	yawned again. Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of course, it was all a bad dream. The truth of the matter was that it was Lawrence who had murdered Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet. But it was absurd of John to make such a fuss about it, and to go shouting out: "I tell you I won't have it!" I woke up with a start. At once I realized that I was in a very awkward predicament. For, about twelve feet away from me, John and Mary Cavendish were standing facing each other, and they were evidently quarrelling. And, quite as evidently, they were unaware of my vicinity, for before I could move or speak John repeated the words which had aroused me from my dream. "I tell you, Mary, I won't have it." Mary's voice came, cool and liquid: "Have _you_ any right to criticize my actions?" "It will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried on Saturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow." "Oh," she shrugged her shoulders, "if it is only village gossip that you mind!" "But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway." "A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the" she looked at him "stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman." Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide. "Mary!" "Well?" Her tone did not change. The pleading died out of his voice. "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?" "If I choose." "You defy me?" "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?" "Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except one of us." Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be	Lawrence your message," I said. "And what did he say? He was entirely puzzled?" "Yes. I am quite sure he had no idea of what you meant." I had expected Poirot to be disappointed; but, to my surprise, he replied that that was as he had thought, and that he was very glad. My pride forbade me to ask any questions. Poirot switched off on another tack. "Mademoiselle Cynthia was not at lunch to-day? How was that?" "She is at the hospital again. She resumed work to-day." "Ah, she is an industrious little demoiselle. And pretty too. She is like pictures I have seen in Italy. I would rather like to see that dispensary of hers. Do you think she would show it to me?" "I am sure she would be delighted. It's an interesting little place." "Does she go there every day?" "She has all Wednesdays off, and comes back to lunch on Saturdays. Those are her only times off." "I will remember. Women are doing great work nowadays, and Mademoiselle Cynthia is clever oh, yes, she has brains, that little one." "Yes. I believe she has passed quite a stiff exam." "Without doubt. After all, it is very responsible work. I suppose they have very strong poisons there?" "Yes, she showed them to us. They are kept locked up in a little cupboard. I believe they have to be very careful. They always take out the key before leaving the room." "Indeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?" "No, right the other side of the room. Why?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "I wondered. That is all. Will you come in?" We had reached the cottage. "No. I think I'll be getting back. I shall go round the long way through the woods." The woods round Styles were very beautiful. After the walk across the open park, it was pleasant to saunter lazily through the cool glades. There was hardly a breath of wind, the very chirp of the birds was faint and subdued. I strolled on a little way, and finally flung myself down at the foot of a grand old beech-tree. My thoughts of mankind were kindly and charitable. I even forgave Poirot for his absurd secrecy. In fact, I was at peace with the world. Then I yawned. I thought about the crime, and it struck me as being very unreal and far off. I yawned again. Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of course, it was all a bad dream. The truth of the matter was that it was Lawrence who had murdered Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet. But it was absurd of John to make such a fuss about it, and to go shouting out: "I tell you I won't have it!" I woke up with a start. At once I realized that I was in a very awkward predicament. For, about twelve feet away from me, John and Mary Cavendish were standing facing each other, and they were evidently quarrelling. And, quite as evidently, they were unaware of my vicinity, for before I could move or speak John repeated the words which had aroused me from my dream. "I tell you, Mary, I won't have it." Mary's voice came, cool and liquid: "Have _you_ any right to criticize my actions?" "It will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried on Saturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow." "Oh," she shrugged her shoulders, "if it is only village gossip that you mind!" "But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway." "A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the" she looked at him "stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman." Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide. "Mary!" "Well?" Her tone did not change. The pleading died out of his voice. "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?" "If I choose." "You defy me?" "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?" "Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except one of us." Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless - A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all. "No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?" "I know, but, still, who else is there?" "Can't you guess?" "No." I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice. "Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered. "Impossible!" "Not at all." "But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?" "That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell you this: Poirot thinks so." "Poirot? Does he? How do you know?" I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added: "He said twice:" That alters everything.' "And I've been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?" "H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky." "Yes, but it was possible." "And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don't think that will wash." But I had remembered something else. "You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen." And I then told him of the cocoa sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed. John interrupted just as I had done. "But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?" "Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it either until now. Don't you understand? Bauerstein had it analysed that's just it! If Bauerstein's the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute some ordinary cocoa for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of course they would find no strychnine! But no one would dream of suspecting Bauerstein, or think of taking another sample except Poirot," I added, with belated recognition. "Yes, but what about the bitter taste that cocoa won't disguise?" "Well, we've only his word for that. And there are other possibilities. He's admittedly one of the world's greatest toxicologists" "One of the world's greatest what? Say it again." "He knows more about poisons than almost anybody," I explained. "Well,	hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway." "A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the" she looked at him "stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman." Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide. "Mary!" "Well?" Her tone did not change. The pleading died out of his voice. "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?" "If I choose." "You defy me?" "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?" "Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except one of us." Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless - A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all. "No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?" "I know, but, still, who else is there?" "Can't you guess?" "No." I looked cautiously round, and lowered	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"	Alexis Ivanovitch	and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view	and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And	good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have	"But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they,	past he had been feeling ashamed of being seen in such company, and this had proved the last straw. An hour later we had lost everything in hand. "Home!" cried the Grandmother. Not until we had turned into the Avenue did she utter a word; but from that point onwards, until we arrived at the hotel, she kept venting exclamations of "What a fool I am! What a silly old fool I am, to be sure!" Arrived at the hotel, she called for tea, and then gave orders for her luggage to be packed. "We are off again," she announced. "But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De	Away with you, I say!" "Mais, Madame," cooed De Griers and straightway started afresh with his fussy instructions. "Stake just _once_, as he advises," the Grandmother said to me, "and then we shall see what we _shall_ see. Of course, his stake _might_ win." As a matter of fact, De Grier s one object was to distract the old lady from staking large sums; wherefore, he now suggested to her that she should stake upon certain numbers, singly and in groups. Consequently, in accordance with his instructions, I staked a ten-g lden piece upon several odd numbers in the first twenty, and five ten-g lden pieces upon certain groups of numbers-groups of from twelve to eighteen, and from eighteen to twenty-four. The total staked amounted to 160 g lden. The wheel revolved. "Zero!" cried the croupier. We had lost it all! "The fool!" cried the old lady as she turned upon De Griers. "You infernal Frenchman, to think that _you_ should advise! Away with you! Though you fuss and fuss, you don t even know what you re talking about." Deeply offended, De Griers shrugged his shoulders, favoured the Grandmother with a look of contempt, and departed. For some time past he had been feeling ashamed of being seen in such company, and this had proved the last straw. An hour later we had lost everything in hand. "Home!" cried the Grandmother. Not until we had turned into the Avenue did she utter a word; but from that point onwards, until we arrived at the hotel, she kept venting exclamations of "What a fool I am! What a silly old fool I am, to be sure!" Arrived at the hotel, she called for tea, and then gave orders for her luggage to be packed. "We are off again," she announced. "But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De Griers "come sneaking here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me,	when she would be at liberty to stake more. But she was so impatient that, though at first she agreed to do as I suggested, nothing could stop her when once she had begun. By way of prelude she won stakes of a hundred and two hundred g lden. "There you are!" she said as she nudged me. "See what we have won! Surely it would be worth our while to stake four thousand instead of a hundred, for we might win another four thousand, and then ! Oh, it was YOUR fault before all your fault!" I felt greatly put out as I watched her play, but I decided to hold my tongue, and to give her no more advice. Suddenly De Griers appeared on the scene. It seemed that all this while he and his companions had been standing beside us though I noticed that Mlle. Blanche had withdrawn a little from the rest, and was engaged in flirting with the Prince. Clearly the General was greatly put out at this. Indeed, he was in a perfect agony of vexation. But Mlle. was careful never to look his way, though he did his best to attract her notice. Poor General! By turns his face blanched and reddened, and he was trembling to such an extent that he could scarcely follow the old lady s play. At length Mlle. and the Prince took their departure, and the General followed them. "Madame, Madame," sounded the honeyed accents of De Griers as he leant over to whisper in the Grandmother s ear. "That stake will never win. No, no, it is impossible," he added in Russian with a writhe. "No, no!" "But why not?" asked the Grandmother, turning round. "Show me what I ought to do." Instantly De Griers burst into a babble of French as he advised, jumped about, declared that such and such chances ought to be waited for, and started to make calculations of figures. All this he addressed to me in my capacity as translator tapping the table the while with his finger, and pointing hither and thither. At length he seized a pencil, and began to reckon sums on paper until he had exhausted the Grandmother s patience. "Away with you!" she interrupted. "You talk sheer nonsense, for, though you keep on saying" Madame, Madame, "you haven t the least notion what ought to be done. Away with you, I say!" "Mais, Madame," cooed De Griers and straightway started afresh with his fussy instructions. "Stake just _once_, as he advises," the Grandmother said to me, "and then we shall see what we _shall_ see. Of course, his stake _might_ win." As a matter of fact, De Grier s one object was to distract the old lady from staking large sums; wherefore, he now suggested to her that she should stake upon certain numbers, singly and in groups. Consequently, in accordance with his instructions, I staked a ten-g lden piece upon several odd numbers in the first twenty, and five ten-g lden pieces upon certain groups of numbers-groups of from twelve to eighteen, and from eighteen to twenty-four. The total staked amounted to 160 g lden. The wheel revolved. "Zero!" cried the croupier. We had lost it all! "The fool!" cried the old lady as she turned upon De Griers. "You infernal Frenchman, to think that _you_ should advise! Away with you! Though you fuss and fuss, you don t even know what you re talking about." Deeply offended, De Griers shrugged his shoulders, favoured the Grandmother with a look of contempt, and departed. For some time past he had been feeling ashamed of being seen in such company, and this had proved the last straw. An hour later we had lost everything in hand. "Home!" cried the Grandmother. Not until we had turned into the Avenue did she utter a word; but from that point onwards, until we arrived at the hotel, she kept venting exclamations of "What a fool I am! What a silly old fool I am, to be sure!" Arrived at the hotel, she called for tea, and then gave orders for her luggage to be packed. "We are off again," she announced. "But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De Griers "come sneaking here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?" "I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma," replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the	odd numbers in the first twenty, and five ten-g lden pieces upon certain groups of numbers-groups of from twelve to eighteen, and from eighteen to twenty-four. The total staked amounted to 160 g lden. The wheel revolved. "Zero!" cried the croupier. We had lost it all! "The fool!" cried the old lady as she turned upon De Griers. "You infernal Frenchman, to think that _you_ should advise! Away with you! Though you fuss and fuss, you don t even know what you re talking about." Deeply offended, De Griers shrugged his shoulders, favoured the Grandmother with a look of contempt, and departed. For some time past he had been feeling ashamed of being seen in such company, and this had proved the last straw. An hour later we had lost everything in hand. "Home!" cried the Grandmother. Not until we had turned into the Avenue did she utter a word; but from that point onwards, until we arrived at the hotel, she kept venting exclamations of "What a fool I am! What a silly old fool I am, to be sure!" Arrived at the hotel, she called for tea, and then gave orders for her luggage to be packed. "We are off again," she announced. "But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De Griers "come sneaking here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?" "I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma," replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out	The Gambler
Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.	No speaker	our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on,"	truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so,	you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme,	concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of	here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir," "--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object	I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir," "--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--" "His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most	ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself," "Your obliged and affectionate Son, F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL." CHAPTER XV This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir," "--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--" "His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--" "Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers." "I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter. "'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?" "She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?" "Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!" "I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him." "Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her." 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' "I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--" 'Happier than I deserve.' "Come, he knows himself there." 'Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.' "--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?-- And a fine ending--and there is the letter. The child of good fortune! That was your name for him, was it?" "You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you." "Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another person's interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject." The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was	the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir," "--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--" "His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--" "Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers." "I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter. "'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?" "She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?" "Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!" "I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him." "Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her." 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' "I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--" 'Happier than I deserve.' "Come, he knows	Emma
He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:	No speaker	because she knew the truth."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"I ruin my career, no	him. "Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to	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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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	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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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, "Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever." The tumult increased, the invocation of	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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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, "Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever." 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	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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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, "Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever." 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	too much agitated with the defeat to British prestige to be interested. From where she sat, she could see the renegade Mr. Fielding. She had had a better view of him from the platform, and knew that an Indian child perched on his knee. He was watching the proceedings, watching her. When their eyes met, he turned his away, as if direct intercourse was of no interest to him. The Magistrate was also happier. He had won the battle of the platform, and gained confidence. Intelligent and impartial, he continued to listen to the evidence, and tried to forget that later on he should 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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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, "Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever." 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,	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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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, "Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever." 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	A Passage To India
"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."	Antonida Vassilievna Tarassevitcha	wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great	any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and	could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do	mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But	with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?" "I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred	continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?" "I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred g lden for yourself." "I thank you humbly, Madame, but I am ashamed to" "Come, come!" cried the Grandmother so energetically, and with such an air of menace, that I did not dare refuse the money further. "If, when in Moscow, you have no place where you can lay your head," she added, "come and see me, and I will give you a recommendation. Now, Potapitch, get things ready." I ascended to my room, and lay down upon the bed. A whole hour I must have lain thus, with my head resting upon my hand. So the crisis had come! I needed time for its consideration. To-morrow I would have a talk with Polina. Ah! The Frenchman! So, it was true? But how could it be so? Polina and De Griers! What a combination! No, it was too improbable. Suddenly I leapt up with the idea of seeking Astley and forcing him to speak. There could be no doubt that he knew more than I did. Astley? Well, he was another problem for me to solve. Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and I opened it to find Potapitch awaiting me. "Sir," he said, "my mistress is asking	the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?" "I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma," replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?" "I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred g lden for yourself." "I thank you humbly, Madame, but I am ashamed to" "Come, come!" cried the Grandmother so energetically, and with such an air of menace, that I did not dare refuse the money further. "If, when in Moscow, you have no place where you can lay your head," she added, "come and see me, and I will give you a recommendation. Now, Potapitch, get things ready." I ascended to my room, and lay down upon the bed. A whole hour I must have lain thus, with my head resting upon my hand. So the crisis had come! I needed time for its consideration. To-morrow I would have a talk with Polina. Ah! The Frenchman! So, it was true? But how could it be so? Polina and De Griers! What a combination! No, it was too improbable. Suddenly I leapt up with the idea of seeking Astley and forcing him to speak. There could be no doubt that he knew more than I did. Astley? Well, he was another problem for me to solve. Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and I opened it to find Potapitch awaiting me. "Sir," he said, "my mistress is asking for you." "Indeed? But she is just departing, is she not? The train leaves in ten minutes time." "She is uneasy, sir; she cannot rest. Come quickly, sir; do not delay." I ran downstairs at once. The Grandmother was just being carried out of her rooms into the corridor. In her hands she held a roll of bank-notes. "Alexis Ivanovitch," she cried, "walk on ahead, and we will set out again." "But whither, Madame?" "I cannot rest until I have retrieved my losses. March on ahead, and ask me no questions. Play continues until midnight, does it not?" For a moment I stood stupefied stood deep in thought; but it was not long before I had made up my mind. "With your leave, Madame," I said, "I will not go with you." "And why not? What do you mean? Is every one here a stupid good-for-nothing?" "Pardon me, but I have nothing to reproach myself with. I merely will not go. I merely intend neither to witness nor to join in your play. I also beg to return you your five hundred g lden. Farewell." Laying the money upon a little table which the Grandmother s chair happened to be passing, I bowed and withdrew. "What folly!" the Grandmother shouted after me. "Very well, then. Do not come, and I will find my way alone. Potapitch, you must come with me. Lift up the chair, and carry me along." I failed to find Mr. Astley, and returned home. It was now growing late it was past midnight, but I subsequently learnt from Potapitch how the Grandmother s day had ended. She had lost all the money which, earlier in the day, I had got for her paper securities a sum amounting to about ten thousand roubles. This she did under the direction of the Pole whom, that afternoon, she had dowered with two ten-g lden pieces. But before his arrival on the scene, she had commanded Potapitch to stake for her; until at length she had told him also to go about his business. Upon that the Pole had leapt into the breach. Not only did it happen that he knew the Russian language, but also he could speak a mixture of three different dialects, so that the pair were able to understand one another. Yet the old lady never ceased to abuse him, despite his deferential manner, and to	telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?" "I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred g lden for yourself." "I thank you humbly, Madame, but I am ashamed to" "Come, come!" cried the Grandmother so energetically, and with such an air of menace, that I did not dare refuse the money further. "If, when in Moscow, you have no place where you can lay your head," she added, "come and see me, and I will give you a recommendation. Now, Potapitch, get things ready." I ascended to my room, and lay down upon the bed. A whole hour I must have lain thus, with my head resting upon my hand. So the crisis had come! I needed time for its consideration. To-morrow I would have a talk with Polina. Ah! The Frenchman! So, it was true? But how could it be so? Polina and De Griers! What a combination! No, it was too improbable. Suddenly I leapt up with the idea of seeking Astley and forcing him to speak. There could be no doubt that he knew more than I did. Astley? Well, he was another problem for me to solve. Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and I opened it to find Potapitch awaiting me. "Sir," he said, "my mistress is asking for you." "Indeed? But she is just departing, is she not? The train leaves in ten minutes time." "She is uneasy, sir; she	The Gambler
"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."	Mary Datchet	it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but	with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph	too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him.	length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely	resisted this wish. But she could not prevent him from feeling her lack of interest in what he was saying, and gradually they both became silent. One thought after another came up in Ralph s mind, but they were all, in some way, connected with Katharine, or with vague feelings of romance and adventure such as she inspired. But he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts; and he pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling. "Here," he thought, "is where we differ from women; they have no sense of romance." "Well, Mary," he said at length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely that Katharine, on leaving the scene which she had so clearly despised, had pronounced some such criticism, or suggested it by her own attitude. But she knew that Ralph would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody. "You don t read enough, Mary," he was saying. "You ought to read more poetry." It was true that Mary s reading had been rather limited to such works as she needed to know for the sake of examinations; and her time for reading in London was very little. For some reason, no one likes to be told that they do	Mr. Asquith deserves to be hanged?" she called back into the sitting-room, and when she joined him, drying her hands, she began to tell him about the latest evasion on the part of the Government with respect to the Women s Suffrage Bill. Ralph did not want to talk about politics, but he could not help respecting Mary for taking such an interest in public questions. He looked at her as she leant forward, poking the fire, and expressing herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the taint of the platform, and he thought, "How absurd Mary would think me if she knew that I almost made up my mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at Katharine s windows. She wouldn t understand it, but I like her very much as she is." For some time they discussed what the women had better do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the question, Mary unconsciously let her attention wander, and a great desire came over her to talk to Ralph about her own feelings; or, at any rate, about something personal, so that she might see what he felt for her; but she resisted this wish. But she could not prevent him from feeling her lack of interest in what he was saying, and gradually they both became silent. One thought after another came up in Ralph s mind, but they were all, in some way, connected with Katharine, or with vague feelings of romance and adventure such as she inspired. But he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts; and he pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling. "Here," he thought, "is where we differ from women; they have no sense of romance." "Well, Mary," he said at length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely that Katharine, on leaving the scene which she had so clearly despised, had pronounced some such criticism, or suggested it by her own attitude. But she knew that Ralph would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody. "You don t read enough, Mary," he was saying. "You ought to read more poetry." It was true that Mary s reading had been rather limited to such works as she needed to know for the sake of examinations; and her time for reading in London was very little. For some reason, no one likes to be told that they do not read enough poetry, but her resentment was only visible in the way she changed the position of her hands, and in the fixed look in her eyes. And then she thought to herself, "I m behaving exactly as I said I wouldn t behave," whereupon she relaxed all her muscles and said, in her reasonable way: "Tell me what I ought to read, then." Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary, and he now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of Mary s character and way of life. "You live with your inferiors," he said, warming unreasonably, as he knew, to his text. "And you get into a groove because, on the whole, it s rather a pleasant groove. And you tend to forget what you re there for. You ve the feminine habit of making much of details. You don t see when things matter and when they don t. And that s what s the ruin of all these organizations. That s why the Suffragists have never done anything all these years. What s the point of drawing-room meetings and bazaars? You want to	only an illustration of the argument that was going forward in his mind. In this spirit he noticed the rather set expression in her eyes, and the slight, half-conscious movement of her lips, which, together with her height and the distinction of her dress, made her look as if the scurrying crowd impeded her, and her direction were different from theirs. He noticed this calmly; but suddenly, as he passed her, his hands and knees began to tremble, and his heart beat painfully. She did not see him, and went on repeating to herself some lines which had stuck to her memory: "It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all." Thus occupied, she did not see Denham, and he had not the courage to stop her. But immediately the whole scene in the Strand wore that curious look of order and purpose which is imparted to the most heterogeneous things when music sounds; and so pleasant was this impression that he was very glad that he had not stopped her, after all. It grew slowly fainter, but lasted until he stood outside the barrister s chambers. When his interview with the barrister was over, it was too late to go back to the office. His sight of Katharine had put him queerly out of tune for a domestic evening. Where should he go? To walk through the streets of London until he came to Katharine s house, to look up at the windows and fancy her within, seemed to him possible for a moment; and then he rejected the plan almost with a blush as, with a curious division of consciousness, one plucks a flower sentimentally and throws it away, with a blush, when it is actually picked. No, he would go and see Mary Datchet. By this time she would be back from her work. To see Ralph appear unexpectedly in her room threw Mary for a second off her balance. She had been cleaning knives in her little scullery, and when she had let him in she went back again, and turned on the cold-water tap to its fullest volume, and then turned it off again. "Now," she thought to herself, as she screwed it tight, "I m not going to let these silly ideas come into my head...." "Don t you think Mr. Asquith deserves to be hanged?" she called back into the sitting-room, and when she joined him, drying her hands, she began to tell him about the latest evasion on the part of the Government with respect to the Women s Suffrage Bill. Ralph did not want to talk about politics, but he could not help respecting Mary for taking such an interest in public questions. He looked at her as she leant forward, poking the fire, and expressing herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the taint of the platform, and he thought, "How absurd Mary would think me if she knew that I almost made up my mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at Katharine s windows. She wouldn t understand it, but I like her very much as she is." For some time they discussed what the women had better do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the question, Mary unconsciously let her attention wander, and a great desire came over her to talk to Ralph about her own feelings; or, at any rate, about something personal, so that she might see what he felt for her; but she resisted this wish. But she could not prevent him from feeling her lack of interest in what he was saying, and gradually they both became silent. One thought after another came up in Ralph s mind, but they were all, in some way, connected with Katharine, or with vague feelings of romance and adventure such as she inspired. But he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts; and he pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling. "Here," he thought, "is where we differ from women; they have no sense of romance." "Well, Mary," he said at length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely that Katharine, on leaving the scene which she had so clearly despised, had pronounced some such criticism, or suggested it by her own attitude. But she knew that Ralph would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody. "You don t read enough, Mary," he was saying. "You ought to read more poetry." It was true that Mary s reading had been rather limited to such works as she needed to know for the sake of examinations; and her time for reading in London was very little. For some reason, no one likes to be told that they do not read enough poetry, but her resentment was only visible in the way she changed the position of her hands, and in the fixed look in her eyes. And then she thought to herself, "I m behaving exactly as I said I wouldn t behave," whereupon she relaxed all her muscles and said, in her reasonable way: "Tell me what I ought to read, then." Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary, and he now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of Mary s character and way of life. "You live with your inferiors," he said, warming unreasonably, as he knew, to his text. "And you get into a groove because, on the whole, it s rather a pleasant groove. And you tend to forget what you re there for. You ve the feminine habit of making much of details. You don t see when things matter and when they don t. And that s what s the ruin of all these organizations. That s why the Suffragists have never done anything all these years. What s the point of drawing-room meetings and bazaars? You want to have ideas, Mary; get hold of something big; never mind making mistakes, but don t niggle. Why don t you throw it all up for a year, and travel? see something of the world. Don t be content to live with half a dozen people in a backwater all your life. But you won t," he concluded. "I ve rather come to that way of thinking myself about myself, I mean," said Mary, surprising him by her acquiescence. "I should like to go somewhere far away." For a moment they were both silent. Ralph then said: "But look here, Mary, you haven t been taking this seriously, have you?" His irritation was spent, and the depression, which she could not keep out of her voice, made him feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her. "You won t go away, will you?" he asked. And as she said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away." "I don t know exactly what I mean to do," she replied. She hovered on the verge of some discussion of her plans, but she received no encouragement. He fell into one of his queer silences, which seemed to Mary, in spite of all her precautions, to have reference to what she also could not prevent herself from thinking about their feeling for each other and their relationship. She felt that the two lines of thought bored their way in long, parallel tunnels which came very close indeed, but never ran into each other. When he had gone, and he left her without breaking his silence more than was needed to wish her good night, she sat on for a time, reviewing what he had said. If love is a devastating fire which melts the whole being into one mountain torrent, Mary was no more in love with Denham than she was in love with her poker or her tongs. But probably these extreme passions are very rare, and the state of mind thus depicted belongs to the very last stages of love, when the power to resist has been eaten away, week by week or day by day. Like most intelligent people, Mary was something of an egoist, to the extent, that is, of attaching great importance to what she felt, and she was by nature enough of a moralist to like to make certain, from time to time, that	London until he came to Katharine s house, to look up at the windows and fancy her within, seemed to him possible for a moment; and then he rejected the plan almost with a blush as, with a curious division of consciousness, one plucks a flower sentimentally and throws it away, with a blush, when it is actually picked. No, he would go and see Mary Datchet. By this time she would be back from her work. To see Ralph appear unexpectedly in her room threw Mary for a second off her balance. She had been cleaning knives in her little scullery, and when she had let him in she went back again, and turned on the cold-water tap to its fullest volume, and then turned it off again. "Now," she thought to herself, as she screwed it tight, "I m not going to let these silly ideas come into my head...." "Don t you think Mr. Asquith deserves to be hanged?" she called back into the sitting-room, and when she joined him, drying her hands, she began to tell him about the latest evasion on the part of the Government with respect to the Women s Suffrage Bill. Ralph did not want to talk about politics, but he could not help respecting Mary for taking such an interest in public questions. He looked at her as she leant forward, poking the fire, and expressing herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the taint of the platform, and he thought, "How absurd Mary would think me if she knew that I almost made up my mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at Katharine s windows. She wouldn t understand it, but I like her very much as she is." For some time they discussed what the women had better do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the question, Mary unconsciously let her attention wander, and a great desire came over her to talk to Ralph about her own feelings; or, at any rate, about something personal, so that she might see what he felt for her; but she resisted this wish. But she could not prevent him from feeling her lack of interest in what he was saying, and gradually they both became silent. One thought after another came up in Ralph s mind, but they were all, in some way, connected with Katharine, or with vague feelings of romance and adventure such as she inspired. But he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts; and he pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling. "Here," he thought, "is where we differ from women; they have no sense of romance." "Well, Mary," he said at length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely that Katharine, on leaving the scene which she had so clearly despised, had pronounced some such criticism, or suggested it by her own attitude. But she knew that Ralph would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody. "You don t read enough, Mary," he was saying. "You ought to read more poetry." It was true that Mary s reading had been rather limited to such works as she needed to know for the sake of examinations; and her time for reading in London was very little. For some reason, no one likes to be told that they do not read enough poetry, but her resentment was only visible in the way she changed the position of her hands, and in the fixed look in her eyes. And then she thought to herself, "I m behaving exactly as I said I wouldn t behave," whereupon she relaxed all her muscles and said, in her reasonable way: "Tell me what I ought to read, then." Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary, and he now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of Mary s character and way of life. "You live with your inferiors," he said, warming unreasonably, as he knew, to his text. "And you get into a groove because, on the whole, it s rather a pleasant groove. And you tend to forget what you re there for. You ve the feminine habit of making much of details. You don t see when things matter and when they don t. And that s what s the ruin of all these organizations. That s why the Suffragists have never done anything all these years. What s the point of drawing-room meetings and bazaars? You want to have ideas, Mary; get hold of something big; never mind making mistakes, but don t niggle. Why don t you throw it all up for a year, and travel? see something of the world. Don t be content to live with half a dozen people in a backwater all your life. But you won t," he concluded. "I ve rather come to that way of thinking myself about myself, I mean," said Mary, surprising him by her acquiescence. "I should like to go somewhere far away." For a moment they were both silent. Ralph then said: "But look here, Mary, you haven t been taking this seriously, have you?" His irritation was spent, and the depression, which she could not keep out of her voice, made him feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her. "You won t go away, will you?" he asked. And as she said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away." "I don t know exactly what I mean to do," she replied. She hovered on the verge of some	Night And Day
“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”	Grace	debts.” “But to such amounts?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“And he _has_ to pay	“Kitty has debts--great heaped-up gaming debts.” “But to such amounts?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“And he _has_ to pay them? There’s no one else?”	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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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?” She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear. “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	I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father--she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.” “Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!” he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at 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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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?” She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear. “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	afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.” “Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!” he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at 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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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?” She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear. “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	The Outcry
observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.	No speaker	itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What	"but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked	the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money	take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee.	young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him. "But, yer see," observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied	like my friend, could you do better than join him?" "Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!" responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes. "The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession." "Regular town-maders?" asked Mr. Claypole. "Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now," replied Fagin. "Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket. "It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided manner. "Twenty pound, though it's a lot of money!" "Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the market." "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning." "Where?" "Here." "Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?" "Live like a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him. "But, yer see," observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. "What time to-morrow shall we say?" "Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend." "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. "Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter." "Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly." "Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole. "Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. "She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. "You understand?" "Oh yes, I understand perfectly," replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. "Good-night! Good-night!" With many adieus	"No matter who's got it, or who did it, my dear," replied Fagin, glancing, nevertheless, with a hawk's eye at the girl and the two bundles. "I'm in that way myself, and I like you for it." "In what way?" asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering. "In that way of business," rejoined Fagin; "and so are the people of the house. You've hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe here as you could be. There is not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; that is, when I like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy to you and the young woman; so I've said the word, and you may make your minds easy." Noah Claypole's mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but his body certainly was not; for he shuffled and writhed about, into various uncouth positions: eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and suspicion. "I'll tell you more," said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl, by dint of friendly nods and muttered encouragements. "I have got a friend that I think can gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right way, where you can take whatever department of the business you think will suit you best at first, and be taught all the others." "Yer speak as if yer were in earnest," replied Noah. "What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?" inquired Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "Here! Let me have a word with you outside." "There's no occasion to trouble ourselves to move," said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again. "She'll take the luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to them bundles." This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed without the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off with the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her out. "She's kept tolerably well under, ain't she?" he asked as he resumed his seat: in the tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal. "Quite perfect," rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're a genius, my dear." "Why, I suppose if I wasn't, I shouldn't be here," replied Noah. "But, I say, she'll be back if yer lose time." "Now, what do you think?" said Fagin. "If you was to like my friend, could you do better than join him?" "Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!" responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes. "The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession." "Regular town-maders?" asked Mr. Claypole. "Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now," replied Fagin. "Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket. "It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided manner. "Twenty pound, though it's a lot of money!" "Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the market." "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning." "Where?" "Here." "Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?" "Live like a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him. "But, yer see," observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. "What time to-morrow shall we say?" "Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend." "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. "Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter." "Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly." "Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole. "Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. "She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. "You understand?" "Oh yes, I understand perfectly," replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. "Good-night! Good-night!" With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady's attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity. CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE "And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?" asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, he had removed next day to Fagin's house. "Cod, I thought as much last night!" "Every man's his own friend, my dear," replied Fagin, with his most insinuating grin. "He hasn't as good a one as himself anywhere." "Except sometimes," replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the world. "Some people are nobody's enemies but their own, yer know." "Don't believe that," said Fagin. "When a man's his own enemy, it's only because he's too much his own friend; not because he's careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain't such a thing in nature." "There oughn't to be, if there is," replied Mr. Bolter. "That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. It's neither, my friend, neither. It's number one." "Ha! ha!" cried Mr. Bolter. "Number one for ever." "In a little community like ours, my dear," said Fagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this position, "we have a general number one, without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people." "Oh, the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Bolter. "You see," pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, "we are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it's your object to take care of number one meaning yourself." "Certainly," replied Mr. Bolter. "Yer about right there." "Well! You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one." "Number two, you mean," said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness. "No, I don't!" retorted Fagin. "I'm of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself." "I say," interrupted Mr. Bolter, "yer a very nice man, and I'm very fond of	better than join him?" "Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!" responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes. "The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession." "Regular town-maders?" asked Mr. Claypole. "Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now," replied Fagin. "Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket. "It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided manner. "Twenty pound, though it's a lot of money!" "Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the market." "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning." "Where?" "Here." "Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?" "Live like a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him. "But, yer see," observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. "What time to-morrow shall we say?" "Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend." "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. "Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter." "Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly." "Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole. "Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. "She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late	Oliver Twist
"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."	Josiah Bounderby	appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on	was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from	smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it	'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily	one another, faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, "do you people, in a general way, complain of?" Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in	that man out of this blessed country?" And Mr. Bounderby pointed him out for inspection, with an angry finger. "Nay, ma'am," said Stephen Blackpool, staunchly protesting against the words that had been used, and instinctively addressing himself to Louisa, after glancing at her face. "Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o' th' kind, ma'am, nowt o' th' kind. They've not doon me a kindness, ma'am, as I know and feel. But there's not a dozen men amoong 'em, ma'am a dozen? Not six but what believes as he has doon his duty by the rest and by himseln. God forbid as I, that ha' known, and had'n experience o' these men aw my life I, that ha' ett'n an' droonken wi' 'em, an' seet'n wi' 'em, and toil'n wi' 'em, and lov'n 'em, should fail fur to stan by 'em wi' the truth, let 'em ha' doon to me what they may!" He spoke with the rugged earnestness of his place and character deepened perhaps by a proud consciousness that he was faithful to his class under all their mistrust; but he fully remembered where he was, and did not even raise his voice. "No, ma'am, no. They're true to one another, faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, "do you people, in a general way, complain of?" Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know,	"I sed as I had nowt to sen, sir; not as I was fearfo' o' openin' my lips." "You said! Ah! _I_ know what you said; more than that, I know what you mean, you see. Not always the same thing, by the Lord Harry! Quite different things. You had better tell us at once, that that fellow Slackbridge is not in the town, stirring up the people to mutiny; and that he is not a regular qualified leader of the people: that is, a most confounded scoundrel. You had better tell us so at once; you can't deceive me. You want to tell us so. Why don't you?" "I'm as sooary as yo, sir, when the people's leaders is bad," said Stephen, shaking his head. "They taks such as offers. Haply 'tis na' the sma'est o' their misfortuns when they can get no better." The wind began to get boisterous. "Now, you'll think this pretty well, Harthouse," said Mr. Bounderby. "You'll think this tolerably strong. You'll say, upon my soul this is a tidy specimen of what my friends have to deal with; but this is nothing, sir! You shall hear me ask this man a question. Pray, Mr. Blackpool" wind springing up very fast "may I take the liberty of asking you how it happens that you refused to be in this Combination?" "How 't happens?" "Ah!" said Mr. Bounderby, with his thumbs in the arms of his coat, and jerking his head and shutting his eyes in confidence with the opposite wall: "how it happens." "I'd leefer not coom to 't, sir; but sin you put th' question an' not want'n t' be ill-manner'n I'll answer. I ha passed a promess." "Not to me, you know," said Bounderby. (Gusty weather with deceitful calms. One now prevailing.) "O no, sir. Not to yo." "As for me, any consideration for me has had just nothing at all to do with it," said Bounderby, still in confidence with the wall. "If only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown had been in question, you would have joined and made no bones about it?" "Why yes, sir. 'Tis true." "Though he knows," said Mr. Bounderby, now blowing a gale, "that there are a set of rascals and rebels whom transportation is too good for! Now, Mr. Harthouse, you have been knocking about in the world some time. Did you ever meet with anything like that man out of this blessed country?" And Mr. Bounderby pointed him out for inspection, with an angry finger. "Nay, ma'am," said Stephen Blackpool, staunchly protesting against the words that had been used, and instinctively addressing himself to Louisa, after glancing at her face. "Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o' th' kind, ma'am, nowt o' th' kind. They've not doon me a kindness, ma'am, as I know and feel. But there's not a dozen men amoong 'em, ma'am a dozen? Not six but what believes as he has doon his duty by the rest and by himseln. God forbid as I, that ha' known, and had'n experience o' these men aw my life I, that ha' ett'n an' droonken wi' 'em, an' seet'n wi' 'em, and toil'n wi' 'em, and lov'n 'em, should fail fur to stan by 'em wi' the truth, let 'em ha' doon to me what they may!" He spoke with the rugged earnestness of his place and character deepened perhaps by a proud consciousness that he was faithful to his class under all their mistrust; but he fully remembered where he was, and did not even raise his voice. "No, ma'am, no. They're true to one another, faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, "do you people, in a general way, complain of?" Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights." "I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do't?" "I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will make an example of half a dozen Slackbridges. We'll indict the blackguards for felony, and get 'em shipped off to penal settlements." Stephen gravely shook his head. "Don't tell me we won't, man," said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, "because we will, I tell you!" "Sir," returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was t' tak a hundred Slackbridges aw as there is, and aw the number ten times towd an' was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an' sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the muddle just wheer 'tis. Mischeevous strangers!" said Stephen, with an anxious smile; "when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we can call to mind, o' th' mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not by _them_ the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis not wi' _them_ 't commences. I ha no favour for 'em I ha no reason to favour 'em but 'tis hopeless and useless to dream o' takin them fro their trade, 'stead o' takin their trade fro them! Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit." Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind. "Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the genelman what will better	They're true to one another, faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, "do you people, in a general way, complain of?" Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights." "I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do't?" "I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will make	Hard Times
"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"	Edmund	its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace,	bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most	can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with	a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan,	parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is." "My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished. "Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she	to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends." And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop!" He turned back. "I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond" "If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again. "No, no, it is not. I want to consult you." Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is." "My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished. "Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?" "If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it, when it is not wanted?" "She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom." "No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross beyond all comparison better than the necklace." "For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's attentions to you have been not more than you were justly entitled to I am the last	suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your possession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many words." Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with. It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in this necklace she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend. Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before. CHAPTER XXVII On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome. "Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle a chain for William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends." And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop!" He turned back. "I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond" "If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again. "No, no, it is not. I want to consult you." Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is." "My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished. "Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?" "If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it, when it is not wanted?" "She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom." "No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross beyond all comparison better than the necklace." "For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's attentions to you have been not more than you were justly entitled to I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been invariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the _air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_, is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose characters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity and natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting principally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects I have on earth." He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as she could. She was one of his two dearest that must support her. But the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before, and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would be oh, how different would it be how far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed many tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the influence of fervent prayers for his happiness. It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough	she now walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before. CHAPTER XXVII On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome. "Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle a chain for William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends." And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop!" He turned back. "I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond" "If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again. "No, no, it is not. I want to consult you." Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is." "My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished. "Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?" "If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it, when it is not wanted?" "She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as she	Mansfield Park
"Really,"	Elinor	all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so	be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of	young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk	of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait	change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment,	such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this." Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it." "But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living s being enough to allow them to marry." "The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before	might establish all your views of happiness." What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him. He _looked_ all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words, "Colonel Brandon!" "Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion." "Colonel Brandon give _me_ a living! Can it be possible?" "The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where." "No," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in _you;_ for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all. I feel it I would express it if I could but, as you well know, I am no orator." "You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon s discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps indeed I know he _has_, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation." Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak; at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, "Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this." Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it." "But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living s being enough to allow them to marry." "The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan t go if Lucy an t there." Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more. CHAPTER XLI. Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett s Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward _would_ give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood s part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry. It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife s indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sister s going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was always at Elinor s service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor	that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps indeed I know he _has_, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation." Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak; at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, "Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this." Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after	Sense And Sensibility
--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.	No speaker	very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she	opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though	must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his	such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty’s horrid incubus?” “Ah, but the inducement and the _quid pro quo_,” Lord John brightly indicated, “are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus--which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his visitor patiently explained, “in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother’s wants. Those are her ‘terms,’ and I don’t mind saying that they’re most disagreeable to me--I quite hate ‘em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn’t touch ‘em with a long pole if	I dare say such a sum as nine or ten would serve.” “And where the mischief, if you please, at this highly inconvenient time, am I to pick up nine or ten thousand?” Lord John declined, with a smiling, a fairly irritating eye for his friend’s general resources, to consider that question seriously. “Surely you can have no difficulty whatever--!” “Why not?--when you can see for yourself that I’ve had this year to let poor dear old Hill Street! Do you call it the moment for me to have _liked_ to see myself all but cajoled into planking down even such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty’s horrid incubus?” “Ah, but the inducement and the _quid pro quo_,” Lord John brightly indicated, “are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus--which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his visitor patiently explained, “in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother’s wants. Those are her ‘terms,’ and I don’t mind saying that they’re most disagreeable to me--I quite hate ‘em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn’t touch ‘em with a long pole if my personal feeling--in respect to Lady Grace--wasn’t so immensely enlisted.” “I assure you I’d chuck ‘em out of window, my boy, if I didn’t believe you’d be really good to her,” Lord Theign returned with the properest spirit. It only encouraged his companion. “You _will_ just tell her then, now and here, how good you honestly believe I shall be?” This appeal required a moment--a longer look at him. “You truly hold that that friendly guarantee, backed by my parental weight, will do your job?” “That’s the conviction I entertain.” Lord Theign thought again. “Well, even if your conviction’s just,	the fact of my mother’s desire (intended, I assure you, to be most flattering) that Lady Grace shall enter our family with all honours, but her expressed readiness to facilitate the thing by an understanding over and above----” “Over and above Kitty’s release from her damnable payment?” --Lord Theign reached out to what his guest had left rather in the air. “Of course we take _everything_ into account--or I shouldn’t, my dear fellow, be discussing with you at all a business one or two of whose aspects so little appeal to me: especially as there’s nothing, you easily conceive, that a daughter of mine can come in for by entering even your family, or any other (as a family) that she wouldn’t be quite as sure of by just staying in her own. The Duchess’s idea, at any rate, if I’ve followed you, is that if Grace does accept you she settles on you twelve thousand; with the condition--” Lord John was already all there. “Definitely, yes, of your settling the equivalent on Lady Grace.” “And what do you call the equivalent of twelve thousand?” “Why, tacked on to a value so great and so charming as Lady Grace herself, I dare say such a sum as nine or ten would serve.” “And where the mischief, if you please, at this highly inconvenient time, am I to pick up nine or ten thousand?” Lord John declined, with a smiling, a fairly irritating eye for his friend’s general resources, to consider that question seriously. “Surely you can have no difficulty whatever--!” “Why not?--when you can see for yourself that I’ve had this year to let poor dear old Hill Street! Do you call it the moment for me to have _liked_ to see myself all but cajoled into planking down even such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty’s horrid incubus?” “Ah, but the inducement and the _quid pro quo_,” Lord John brightly indicated, “are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus--which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his visitor patiently explained, “in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother’s wants. Those are her ‘terms,’ and I don’t mind saying that they’re most disagreeable to me--I quite hate ‘em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn’t touch ‘em with a long pole if my personal feeling--in respect to Lady Grace--wasn’t so immensely enlisted.” “I assure you I’d chuck ‘em out of window, my boy, if I didn’t believe you’d be really good to her,” Lord Theign returned with the properest spirit. It only encouraged his companion. “You _will_ just tell her then, now and here, how good you honestly believe I shall be?” This appeal required a moment--a longer look at him. “You truly hold that that friendly guarantee, backed by my parental weight, will do your job?” “That’s the conviction I entertain.” Lord Theign thought again. “Well, even if your conviction’s just, that still doesn’t tell me into which of my very empty pockets it will be of the least use for me to fumble.” “Oh,” Lord John laughed, “when a man has such a tremendous assortment of breeches--!” He pulled up, however, as, in his motion, his eye caught the great vista of the open rooms. “If it’s a question of pockets--and what’s _in_ ‘em--here precisely is my man!” This personage had come back from his tour of observation and was now, on the threshold of the hall, exhibited to Lord Theign as well. Lord John’s welcome was warm. “I’ve had awfully to fail you, Mr. Bender, but I was on the point of joining you. Let me, however, still better, introduce you to our host.” VII Mr. Bender indeed, formidably advancing, scarce had use for this assistance. “Happy to meet you--especially in your beautiful home, Lord Theign.” To which he added while the master of Dedborough stood good-humouredly passive to his approach: “I’ve been round, by your kind permission and the light of nature, and haven’t required support; though if I had there’s a gentleman there who seemed prepared to allow me any amount.” Mr. Bender, out of his abundance,	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 interlopers even but slightly accredited. He seemed thus not at all to strain to “understand” in this particular connection--it would be his familiarly amusing friend Lord John, clearly, who must do most of the work for him. “‘Our own’ in the sense of yours and mine?” “Of yours and mine and Lady Imber’s, yes--and a good bit, last not least, in that of my watching and waiting mother’s.” This struck no prompt spark of apprehension from his listener, so that Lord John went on: “The last thing she did this morning was to remind me, with her fine old frankness, that she would like to learn without more delay where, on the whole question, she _is_, don’t you know? What she put to me” --the younger man felt his ground a little, but proceeded further-- “what she put to me, with her rather grand way of looking _all_ questions straight in the face, you see, was: Do we or don’t we, decidedly, take up practically her very handsome offer--‘very handsome’ being, I mean, what _she_ calls it; though it strikes even me too, you know, as rather decent.” Lord Theign at this point resigned himself to know. “Kitty has of course rubbed into me how decent she herself finds it. She hurls herself again on me--successfully!--for everything, and it suits her down to the ground. She pays her beastly debt--that is, I mean to say,” and he took himself up, though it was scarce more than perfunctory, “discharges her obligations--by her sister’s fair hand; not to mention a few other trifles for which I naturally provide.” Lord John, a little unexpectedly to himself on the defensive, was yet but briefly at a loss. “Of course we take into account, don’t we? not only the fact of my mother’s desire (intended, I assure you, to be most flattering) that Lady Grace shall enter our family with all honours, but her expressed readiness to facilitate the thing by an understanding over and above----” “Over and above Kitty’s release from her damnable payment?” --Lord Theign reached out to what his guest had left rather in the air. “Of course we take _everything_ into account--or I shouldn’t, my dear fellow, be discussing with you at all a business one or two of whose aspects so little appeal to me: especially as there’s nothing, you easily conceive, that a daughter of mine can come in for by entering even your family, or any other (as a family) that she wouldn’t be quite as sure of by just staying in her own. The Duchess’s idea, at any rate, if I’ve followed you, is that if Grace does accept you she settles on you twelve thousand; with the condition--” Lord John was already all there. “Definitely, yes, of your settling the equivalent on Lady Grace.” “And what do you call the equivalent of twelve thousand?” “Why, tacked on to a value so great and so charming as Lady Grace herself, I dare say such a sum as nine or ten would serve.” “And where the mischief, if you please, at this highly inconvenient time, am I to pick up nine or ten thousand?” Lord John declined, with a smiling, a fairly irritating eye for his friend’s general resources, to consider that question seriously. “Surely you can have no difficulty whatever--!” “Why not?--when you can see for yourself that I’ve had this year to let poor dear old Hill Street! Do you call it the moment for me to have _liked_ to see myself all but cajoled into planking down even such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty’s horrid incubus?” “Ah, but the inducement and the _quid pro quo_,” Lord John brightly indicated, “are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus--which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his visitor patiently explained, “in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother’s wants. Those are her ‘terms,’ and I don’t mind saying that they’re most disagreeable to me--I quite hate ‘em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn’t touch ‘em with a long pole if my personal feeling--in respect to Lady Grace--wasn’t so immensely enlisted.” “I assure you I’d chuck ‘em out of window, my boy, if I didn’t believe you’d be really good to her,” Lord Theign returned with the properest spirit. It only encouraged his companion. “You _will_ just tell her then, now and here, how good you honestly believe I shall be?” This appeal required a moment--a longer look at him. “You truly hold that that friendly guarantee, backed by my parental weight, will do your job?” “That’s the conviction I entertain.” Lord Theign thought again. “Well, even if your conviction’s just, that still doesn’t tell me into which of my very empty pockets it will be of the least use for me to fumble.” “Oh,” Lord John laughed, “when a man has such a tremendous assortment of breeches--!” He pulled up, however, as, in his motion, his eye caught the great vista of the open rooms. “If it’s a question of pockets--and what’s _in_ ‘em--here precisely is my man!” This personage had come back from his tour of observation and was now, on the threshold of the hall, exhibited to Lord Theign as well. Lord John’s welcome was warm. “I’ve had awfully to fail you, Mr. Bender, but I was on the point of joining you. Let me, however, still better, introduce you to our host.” VII Mr. Bender indeed, formidably advancing, scarce had use for this assistance. “Happy to meet you--especially in your beautiful home, Lord Theign.” To which he added while the master of Dedborough stood good-humouredly passive to his approach: “I’ve been round, by your kind permission and the light of nature, and haven’t required support; though if I had there’s a gentleman there who seemed prepared to allow me any amount.” Mr. Bender, out of his abundance, evoked as by a suggestive hand this contributory figure. “A young, spare, nervous gentleman with eye-glasses--I guess he’s an author. A friend of yours too?” he asked of Lord John. The answer was prompt and emphatic. “No, the gentleman is no friend at all of mine, Mr. Bender.” “A friend of my daughter’s,” Lord Theign easily explained. “I hope they’re looking after him.” “Oh, they took care he had tea and bread and butter to any extent; and were so good as to move something,” Mr. Bender conscientiously added, “so that he could get up on a chair and see straight into the Moretto.” This was a touch, however, that appeared to affect Lord John unfavourably. “Up on a chair? I say!” Mr. Bender took another view. “Why, I got right up myself--a little more and I’d almost have begun to paw it! He got me quite interested” --the proprietor of the picture would perhaps care to know-- “in that Moretto.” And it was on these lines that Mr. Bender continued to advance. “I take it that your biggest value, however, Lord Theign, is your splendid Sir Joshua. Our friend there has a great deal to say about that too--but it didn’t lead to our moving any more furniture.” On which he paused as to enjoy, with a show of his fine teeth, his host’s reassurance. “It _has_ yet, my impression of that picture, sir, led to something else. Are you prepared, Lord Theign, to entertain a proposition?” Lord Theign met Mr. Bender’s eyes while this inquirer left these few portentous words to speak for themselves. “To the effect that I part to you with ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’? No, Mr. Bender, such a proposition would leave me intensely cold.” Lord John had meanwhile had a more headlong cry. “My dear Bender, I _envy_ you!” “I guess you don’t envy me,” his friend serenely replied, “as much as I envy Lord Theign.” And then while Mr. Bender and the latter continued to face each other searchingly and firmly: “What I allude to is an overture of a strong and simple stamp--such as perhaps would shed a softer light on the difficulties raised by association and attachment. I’ve had some experience of first shocks, and I’d be glad to meet you as man to man.” Mr. Bender was, quite clearly, all genial and all sincere; he intended no irony and	though it was scarce more than perfunctory, “discharges her obligations--by her sister’s fair hand; not to mention a few other trifles for which I naturally provide.” Lord John, a little unexpectedly to himself on the defensive, was yet but briefly at a loss. “Of course we take into account, don’t we? not only the fact of my mother’s desire (intended, I assure you, to be most flattering) that Lady Grace shall enter our family with all honours, but her expressed readiness to facilitate the thing by an understanding over and above----” “Over and above Kitty’s release from her damnable payment?” --Lord Theign reached out to what his guest had left rather in the air. “Of course we take _everything_ into account--or I shouldn’t, my dear fellow, be discussing with you at all a business one or two of whose aspects so little appeal to me: especially as there’s nothing, you easily conceive, that a daughter of mine can come in for by entering even your family, or any other (as a family) that she wouldn’t be quite as sure of by just staying in her own. The Duchess’s idea, at any rate, if I’ve followed you, is that if Grace does accept you she settles on you twelve thousand; with the condition--” Lord John was already all there. “Definitely, yes, of your settling the equivalent on Lady Grace.” “And what do you call the equivalent of twelve thousand?” “Why, tacked on to a value so great and so charming as Lady Grace herself, I dare say such a sum as nine or ten would serve.” “And where the mischief, if you please, at this highly inconvenient time, am I to pick up nine or ten thousand?” Lord John declined, with a smiling, a fairly irritating eye for his friend’s general resources, to consider that question seriously. “Surely you can have no difficulty whatever--!” “Why not?--when you can see for yourself that I’ve had this year to let poor dear old Hill Street! Do you call it the moment for me to have _liked_ to see myself all but cajoled into planking down even such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty’s horrid incubus?” “Ah, but the inducement and the _quid pro quo_,” Lord John brightly indicated, “are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus--which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his visitor patiently explained, “in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother’s wants. Those are her ‘terms,’ and I don’t mind saying that they’re most disagreeable to me--I quite hate ‘em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn’t touch ‘em with a long pole if my personal feeling--in respect to Lady Grace--wasn’t so immensely enlisted.” “I assure you I’d chuck ‘em out of window, my boy, if I didn’t believe you’d be really good to her,” Lord Theign returned with the properest spirit. It only encouraged his companion. “You _will_ just tell her then, now and here, how good you honestly believe I shall be?” This appeal required a moment--a longer look at him. “You truly hold that that friendly guarantee, backed by my parental weight, will do your job?” “That’s the conviction I entertain.” Lord Theign thought again. “Well, even if your conviction’s just, that still doesn’t tell me into which of my very empty pockets it will be of the least use for me to fumble.” “Oh,” Lord John laughed, “when a man has such a tremendous assortment of breeches--!” He pulled up, however, as, in his motion, his eye caught the great vista of the open rooms. “If it’s a question of pockets--and what’s _in_ ‘em--here precisely is my man!” This personage had come back from his tour of observation and was now,	The Outcry
"Love's young dream,"	Milly	"Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then.	dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When	stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe	seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said	up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries	at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is	girl out." Tony and Milly sat at the back. From habit and exhaustion she put her head on his shoulder and her hand in his. When they reached their rooms, however, she said, "Go quietly. We don't want to wake Winnie." For an hour or so Tony lay in the warm little bedroom, reviewing over and over again the incidents of the last three months; then he too fell asleep. * * * * * He was awakened by Winnie. "Mother's still asleep," she said. Tony looked at his watch. "So I should think," he said. It was a quarter-past seven. "Go back to bed." "No, I'm dressed. Let's go out." She went to the window and pulled back the curtains, filling the room with glacial, morning light. "It's hardly raining at all," she said. "What do you want to do?" "I want to go on the pier." "It won't be open yet." "Well, I want to go down to the sea. Come on." Tony knew that he would not get to sleep again that morning. "All right. You go and wait while I dress." "I'll wait here. Mother snores so." Twenty minutes later they went downstairs into the hall where aproned waiters were piling up the furniture and brushing the carpets. A keen wind met them as they emerged from the swing door. The asphalt promenade was wet with spray and rain. Two or three female figures were scudding along, bowed to the wind, prayer-books clutched in their gloved hands. Four or five rugged old men were hobbling down to bathe, hissing like ostlers. "Oh, come on," said Winnie. They went down to the beach and stumbled painfully across the shingle to the margin of the sea. Winnie threw some stones. The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them. "Why don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy." "I see," said Brenda. "_From then onwards I had him watched by private agents and as a result of what they told me, I left my husband's house on April 5th._ "Yes, that all seems quite clear." [III] Lady St Cloud preserved an atavistic faith in the authority and preternatural good judgment of the Head of the Family; accordingly, her first act, on learning from Marjorie of Brenda's wayward behaviour, was to cable for Reggie's return from Tunisia where he was occupied in desecrating some tombs. His departure, like all his movements, was leisurely. He did not take the first available boat or the second, but eventually he arrived in London on the Monday after Tony's visit to Brighton. He held a family conclave in his library, consisting of his mother, Brenda, Marjorie, Allan and the solicitor; later he discussed the question fully with each of them severally; he took Beaver out to luncheon; he dined with Jock; he even called on Tony's Aunt Frances. Finally, on Thursday evening he arranged to meet Tony for dinner at Brown's. He was eight years older than Brenda; very occasionally a fugitive, indefinable likeness was detectable between him and Marjorie, but both in character and appearance he was as different from Brenda as it was possible to imagine. He was prematurely, unnaturally stout, and he carried his burden of flesh as though he were not yet used to it; as though it had been buckled on to him that morning for the first time and he were still experimenting for its better adjustment; there was an instability in his gait and in his eyes a furtive look as though he were at any moment liable to ambush and realized that he was unfairly handicapped for flight. This impression, however, was due solely to his physical appearance; it was the deep bed of fat in which his eyes lay that gave them this look of suspicion; the caution of his movements resulted from the exertion of keeping his balance and not from any embarrassment at his own clumsiness, for it had never occurred to him	don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy." "I see," said Brenda. "_From then onwards I had him watched by private agents and as a result of what they told me, I left my husband's house on April 5th._ "Yes, that all seems quite clear." [III] Lady St Cloud preserved an atavistic faith in the authority and preternatural good judgment of the Head of the Family; accordingly, her first act, on learning from Marjorie of Brenda's wayward behaviour, was to cable for Reggie's return from Tunisia where he	A Handful Of Dust
"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"	Mr. Weston	never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together.	not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very	doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and	I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--" "but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way." "No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it." "I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon." "Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said	Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her. "Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend." "I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?" "Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--" "but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way." "No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it." "I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon." "Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_ really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know who I mean" (nodding to her husband) ". These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have	do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most of them affronted. I will attack them with more address." "Ladies and gentlemen--I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two things moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all." "Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy." 'Three things very dull indeed.' "That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?" (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's assent) "--Do not you all think I shall?" Emma could not resist. "Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be limited as to number--only three at once." Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her. "Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend." "I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?" "Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--" "but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way." "No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it." "I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon." "Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_ really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know who I mean" (nodding to her husband) ". These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say--not one of us." "Yes, yes, pray pass _me_," added her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness; "_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?" "With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm." Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. "Happy couple!" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of hearing:--" "How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!--for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give--it is	comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always with me. You are always with me." "Dating from three o'clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before." "Three o'clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you first in February." "Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But" (lowering her voice) "--nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people." "I say nothing of which I am ashamed," replied he, with lively impudence. "I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February." And then whispering--" "Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk." "Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?" Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr. Knightley's answer was the most distinct. "Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?" "Oh! no, no" "--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could--" "Upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps," (glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) "whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing." "It is a sort of thing," cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, "which _I_ should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party--_I_ never was in any circle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--" Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply, "Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed--quite unheard of--but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body knows what is due to _you_." "It will not do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most of them affronted. I will attack them with more address." "Ladies and gentlemen--I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two things moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all." "Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy." 'Three things very dull indeed.' "That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?" (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's assent) "--Do not you all think I shall?" Emma could not resist. "Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be limited as to number--only three at once." Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her. "Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend." "I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?" "Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--" "but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way." "No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it." "I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon." "Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_ really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know who I mean" (nodding to her husband) ". These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say--not one of us." "Yes, yes, pray pass _me_," added her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness; "_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?" "With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm." Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. "Happy couple!" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of hearing:--" "How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!--for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give--it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck--and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!" Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own confederates, spoke now. "Such things do occur, undoubtedly." "--She was stopped by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen. "You were speaking," said he, gravely. She recovered her voice. "I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise--but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever." He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone, "Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you?" (turning to Emma.) "Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I should like any body fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know," (with a smile at his father) ". Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate her." "And make her like myself." "By all means, if you can." "Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife." "She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else. I shall go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return, I shall come to you for my wife. Remember." Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described? Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished. He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.	of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two things moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all." "Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy." 'Three things very dull indeed.' "That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?" (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's assent) "--Do not you all think I shall?" Emma could not resist. "Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be limited as to number--only three at once." Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her. "Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend." "I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?" "Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--" "but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way." "No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it." "I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon." "Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_ really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know who I mean" (nodding to her husband) ". These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say--not one of us." "Yes, yes, pray pass _me_," added her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness; "_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?" "With	Emma
"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"	Anne Shirley	so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of	Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it	in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so	sake." "I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your	visible although unmaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in with some of Anne's freshly ironed school aprons. She hung them over a chair and sat down with a short sigh. She had had one of her headaches that afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt weak and "tuckered out," as she expressed it. Anne looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. "I do truly wish I could have had the headache in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it joyfully for your sake." "I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's apron pattern." "Oh--it's--it's too dark," cried Anne. "Too dark? Why, it's only twilight. And goodness knows you've gone over often enough after dark." "I'll go over early in the morning," said Anne eagerly. "I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla." "What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley? I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart too." "I'll have to go around by the road, then," said Anne, taking up	would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn't be half so interesting." One June evening, when the orchards were pink blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestarred with its tufts of blossom. In all essential respects the little gable chamber was unchanged. The walls were as white, the pincushion as hard, the chairs as stiffly and yellowly upright as ever. Yet the whole character of the room was altered. It was full of a new vital, pulsing personality that seemed to pervade it and to be quite independent of schoolgirl books and dresses and ribbons, and even of the cracked blue jug full of apple blossoms on the table. It was as if all the dreams, sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant had taken a visible although unmaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in with some of Anne's freshly ironed school aprons. She hung them over a chair and sat down with a short sigh. She had had one of her headaches that afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt weak and "tuckered out," as she expressed it. Anne looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. "I do truly wish I could have had the headache in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it joyfully for your sake." "I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's apron pattern." "Oh--it's--it's too dark," cried Anne. "Too dark? Why, it's only twilight. And goodness knows you've gone over often enough after dark." "I'll go over early in the morning," said Anne eagerly. "I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla." "What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley? I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart too." "I'll have to go around by the road, then," said Anne, taking up her hat reluctantly. "Go by the road and waste half an hour! I'd like to catch you!" "I can't go through the Haunted Wood, Marilla," cried Anne desperately. Marilla stared. "The Haunted Wood! Are you crazy? What under the canopy is the Haunted Wood?" "The spruce wood over the brook," said Anne in a whisper. "Fiddlesticks! There is no such thing as a haunted wood anywhere. Who has been telling you such stuff?" "Nobody," confessed Anne. "Diana and I just imagined the wood was haunted. All the places around here are so--so--_commonplace_. We just got this up for our own amusement. We began it in April. A haunted wood is so very romantic, Marilla. We chose the spruce grove because it's so gloomy. Oh, we have imagined the most harrowing things. There's a white lady walks along the brook just about this time of the night and wrings her hands and utters wailing cries. She appears when there is to be a death in the family. And the ghost of a little murdered child haunts the corner up by Idlewild; it creeps up behind you and lays its cold fingers on your hand--so. Oh, Marilla, it gives me a shudder	no Mayflowers," said Anne. "Diana says perhaps they have something better, but there couldn't be anything better than Mayflowers, could there, Marilla? And Diana says if they don't know what they are like they don't miss them. But I think that is the saddest thing of all. I think it would be _tragic_, Marilla, not to know what Mayflowers are like and _not_ to miss them. Do you know what I think Mayflowers are, Marilla? I think they must be the souls of the flowers that died last summer and this is their heaven. But we had a splendid time today, Marilla. We had our lunch down in a big mossy hollow by an old well--such a _romantic_ spot. Charlie Sloane dared Arty Gillis to jump over it, and Arty did because he wouldn't take a dare. Nobody would in school. It is very _fashionable_ to dare. Mr. Phillips gave all the Mayflowers he found to Prissy Andrews and I heard him to say" ?sweets to the sweet.' "He got that out of a book, I know; but it shows he has some imagination. I was offered some Mayflowers too, but I rejected them with scorn. I can't tell you the person's name because I have vowed never to let it cross my lips. We made wreaths of the Mayflowers and put them on our hats; and when the time came to go home we marched in procession down the road, two by two, with our bouquets and wreaths, singing ?My Home on the Hill.' Oh, it was so thrilling, Marilla. All Mr. Silas Sloane's folks rushed out to see us and everybody we met on the road stopped and stared after us. We made a real sensation." "Not much wonder! Such silly doings!" was Marilla's response. After the Mayflowers came the violets, and Violet Vale was empurpled with them. Anne walked through it on her way to school with reverent steps and worshiping eyes, as if she trod on holy ground. "Somehow," she told Diana, "when I'm going through here I don't really care whether Gil--whether anybody gets ahead of me in class or not. But when I'm up in school it's all different and I care as much as ever. There's such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that is why I'm such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn't be half so interesting." One June evening, when the orchards were pink blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestarred with its tufts of blossom. In all essential respects the little gable chamber was unchanged. The walls were as white, the pincushion as hard, the chairs as stiffly and yellowly upright as ever. Yet the whole character of the room was altered. It was full of a new vital, pulsing personality that seemed to pervade it and to be quite independent of schoolgirl books and dresses and ribbons, and even of the cracked blue jug full of apple blossoms on the table. It was as if all the dreams, sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant had taken a visible although unmaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in with some of Anne's freshly ironed school aprons. She hung them over a chair and sat down with a short sigh. She had had one of her headaches that afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt weak and "tuckered out," as she expressed it. Anne looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. "I do truly wish I could have had the headache in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it joyfully for your sake." "I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's apron pattern." "Oh--it's--it's too dark," cried Anne. "Too dark? Why, it's only twilight. And goodness knows you've gone over often enough after dark." "I'll go over early in the morning," said Anne eagerly. "I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla." "What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley? I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart too." "I'll have to go around by the road, then," said Anne, taking up her hat reluctantly. "Go by the road and waste half an hour! I'd like to catch you!" "I can't go through the Haunted Wood, Marilla," cried Anne desperately. Marilla stared. "The Haunted Wood! Are you crazy? What under the canopy is the Haunted Wood?" "The spruce wood over the brook," said Anne in a whisper. "Fiddlesticks! There is no such thing as a haunted wood anywhere. Who has been telling you such stuff?" "Nobody," confessed Anne. "Diana and I just imagined the wood was haunted. All the places around here are so--so--_commonplace_. We just got this up for our own amusement. We began it in April. A haunted wood is so very romantic, Marilla. We chose the spruce grove because it's so gloomy. Oh, we have imagined the most harrowing things. There's a white lady walks along the brook just about this time of the night and wrings her hands and utters wailing cries. She appears when there is to be a death in the family. And the ghost of a little murdered child haunts the corner up by Idlewild; it creeps up behind you and lays its cold fingers on your hand--so. Oh, Marilla, it gives me a shudder to think of it. And there's a headless man stalks up and down the path and skeletons glower at you between the boughs. Oh, Marilla, I wouldn't go through the Haunted Wood after dark now for anything. I'd be sure that white things would reach out from behind the trees and grab me." "Did ever anyone hear the like!" ejaculated Marilla, who had listened in dumb amazement. "Anne Shirley, do you mean to tell me you believe all that wicked nonsense of your own imagination?" "Not believe _exactly_," faltered Anne. "At least, I don't believe it in daylight. But after dark, Marilla, it's different. That is when ghosts walk." "There are no such things as ghosts, Anne." "Oh, but there are, Marilla," cried Anne eagerly. "I know people who have seen them. And they are respectable people. Charlie Sloane says that his grandmother saw his grandfather driving home the cows one night after he'd been buried for a year. You know Charlie Sloane's grandmother wouldn't tell a story for anything. She's a very religious woman. And Mrs. Thomas's father was pursued home one night by a lamb of fire with its head cut off hanging by a strip of skin. He said he knew it was the spirit of his brother and that it was a warning he would die within nine days. He didn't, but he died two years after, so you see it was really true. And Ruby Gillis says--" "Anne Shirley," interrupted Marilla firmly, "I never want to hear you talking in this fashion again. I've had my doubts about that imagination of yours right along, and if this is going to be the outcome of it, I won't countenance any such doings. You'll go right over to Barry's, and you'll go through that spruce grove, just for a lesson and a warning to you. And never let me hear a word out of your head about haunted woods again." Anne might plead and cry as she liked--and did, for her terror was very real. Her imagination had run away with her and she held the spruce grove in mortal dread after nightfall. But Marilla was inexorable. She marched the shrinking ghost-seer down to the spring and ordered her to proceed straightaway over the bridge and into the dusky retreats of wailing ladies and headless specters beyond. "Oh, Marilla, how can you be so cruel?" sobbed Anne.	met on the road stopped and stared after us. We made a real sensation." "Not much wonder! Such silly doings!" was Marilla's response. After the Mayflowers came the violets, and Violet Vale was empurpled with them. Anne walked through it on her way to school with reverent steps and worshiping eyes, as if she trod on holy ground. "Somehow," she told Diana, "when I'm going through here I don't really care whether Gil--whether anybody gets ahead of me in class or not. But when I'm up in school it's all different and I care as much as ever. There's such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that is why I'm such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn't be half so interesting." One June evening, when the orchards were pink blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestarred with its tufts of blossom. In all essential respects the little gable chamber was unchanged. The walls were as white, the pincushion as hard, the chairs as stiffly and yellowly upright as ever. Yet the whole character of the room was altered. It was full of a new vital, pulsing personality that seemed to pervade it and to be quite independent of schoolgirl books and dresses and ribbons, and even of the cracked blue jug full of apple blossoms on the table. It was as if all the dreams, sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant had taken a visible although unmaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in with some of Anne's freshly ironed school aprons. She hung them over a chair and sat down with a short sigh. She had had one of her headaches that afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt weak and "tuckered out," as she expressed it. Anne looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. "I do truly wish I could have had the headache in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it joyfully for your sake." "I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's apron pattern." "Oh--it's--it's too dark," cried Anne. "Too dark? Why, it's only twilight. And goodness knows you've gone over often enough after dark." "I'll go over early in the morning," said Anne eagerly. "I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla." "What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley? I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart too." "I'll have to go around by the road, then," said Anne, taking up her hat reluctantly. "Go by the road and waste half an hour! I'd like to catch you!" "I can't go through the Haunted Wood, Marilla," cried Anne desperately. Marilla stared. "The Haunted Wood! Are you crazy? What under the canopy is the Haunted Wood?" "The spruce wood over the brook," said Anne in a whisper. "Fiddlesticks! There is no such thing as a haunted wood anywhere. Who has been telling you such stuff?" "Nobody," confessed Anne. "Diana and I just imagined the wood was haunted. All the places around here are so--so--_commonplace_. We just got this up for our own amusement. We began it in April. A haunted wood is so very romantic, Marilla. We chose the spruce grove because it's so gloomy. Oh, we have imagined the most harrowing things. There's a white lady walks along the brook just about this time of the night and wrings her hands and utters wailing cries. She appears when there is to be a death in the family. And the ghost	Anne Of Green Gables
"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."	Emma	hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the	must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics	equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their	all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she	do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And	of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. "Oh! dear, no," said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well," (smiling,) "I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves." Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call	not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!" "-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know," (recollecting herself,) "is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!" "-- "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's." "But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!" "That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried." "But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!" "Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. "Oh! dear, no," said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well," (smiling,) "I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves." Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them. "To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma; "to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else." Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them. Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail;	undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried." "But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!" "Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. "Oh! dear, no," said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well," (smiling,) "I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we	Emma
Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.	No speaker	the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said	and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the	salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led	eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top	Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were	Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing. "And the water's boiling hot," added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were	a refuge for them, could they reach it, as the ordinary Maoris would not dare to follow them there. Higher up the valley, where the waters were dashing furiously down in many a cascade, Don began to realise that they were following the bed of a river, whose source was somewhere high up the mountain he kept on seeing from time to time, while, after several hours' climbing, often over the most arduous, rocky ground, he saw that they were once more entering upon a volcanic district. Pillars of steam rose here and there, and all at once he started aside as a gurgling noise arose from beyond a patch of vivid green which covered the edges of a mud-pool, so hot that it was painful to the hand. From time to time Ngati had stopped to listen, the shouts growing fainter each time, while, as they progressed, a heavy thunderous roar grew louder, died away, and grew louder again. Don looked inquiringly at Jem. "It's the big chimney of that mountain drawing, Mas' Don." "Nonsense!" "Nay, that's what it is; and what I say is this. It's all wery well getting away from them cannibals, but don't let's let old Ngati--" The chief looked sharply round. "Yes, I'm a-talking about you, old chap. I say, you're not to take us right up that mountain, and into a place where we shall tumble in." "_Tapu_! _tapu_!" said Ngati, nodding his head, and pointing toward the steaming cloud above the mountain. "Oh, you aggrawating savage!" cried Jem. Ngati took it as a compliment, and smiled. Then, pointing to a cluster of rocks where a jet of steam was being forced out violently, he led the way there, when they had to pass over a tiny stream of hot water, and a few yards farther on, they came to its source, a beautiful bright fount of the loveliest sapphire blue, with an edge that looked like a marble bath of a roseate tint, fringed every here and there with crystals of sulphur. "Let's have a bathe!" cried Jem eagerly. "Is there time?" He stepped forward, and was about to plunge in his hand, when Ngati seized his shoulders and dragged him back. "What yer doing that for?" cried Jem. The Maori stepped forward, and made as if to dip in one of his feet, but snatched it back as if in pain. Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing. "And the water's boiling hot," added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were in a trap. On his right was the wall-like side of the gully they ascended; on his left the sheer precipice down to the awful torrent; before them the sound of a mighty cataract; and behind the enemy, coming quickly and stealthily on. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. A DANGEROUS PHASE. Ngati took all in at a glance, and signing to his companions to follow, he again lay down, creeping on for a short distance, trailing his spear, till they were well behind a pile of rocks. Here he gave a sharp look round at the _cul de sac_ into which they had been driven, and without hesitation crept to their left to where the rocky wall descended to the raging torrent. To him the place seemed to have no danger, as he passed over the edge and disappeared, but to Don it was like seeking death. "We can never do it, Jem," he said. "Must, Mas' Don. Go on." Don looked at him wildly, and then in a fit of desperation he lowered himself over the edge, felt a pair of great hands grasp him by the loins, and, as he loosened his hold, he was dropped upon a rough ledge of rock, where he stood giddy and confused, with the torrent rushing furiously along beneath his feet, and in front, dimly-seen through a mist which rose from below, he caught a glimpse of a huge fall of water which came from high up, behind some projecting rocks, and disappeared below. The noise of falling water now increased, reverberating from the walls of rock; the mist came cool and wet against his face, and, hurried and startled, Don stood upon the wet, rocky shelf, holding on tightly, till Ngati laid his hand upon his shoulder, passed round him, and then, signing to him to follow, went on. Don's first thought was of Jem, and looking behind him, there was his companion close to where he stood. Jem nodded to him to go on, just as a faint shout arose from somewhere above; and this seemed to nerve him to proceed over the slippery stones to where Ngati was passing round a corner, holding tightly by the rock, which he seemed to embrace. The way was dangerous in the extreme--a narrow ledge of the most rugged kind with a perpendicular moss-covered wall on the right, and on the left, space, with far	the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were in a trap. On his right was the wall-like side of the gully they ascended; on his left the sheer precipice down to the awful torrent; before them the sound of a mighty cataract; and behind the enemy, coming quickly and stealthily on. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. A DANGEROUS PHASE. Ngati took all in at a glance, and signing to his companions to follow, he again lay down, creeping on for a short distance, trailing his spear, till they were well behind a pile of rocks. Here he gave a sharp look round at the _cul de sac_ into which they had been driven, and without hesitation crept to their left to where the rocky wall descended to the raging torrent. To him the place seemed to have no danger, as he passed over the edge and disappeared, but to Don it was like seeking death. "We can never do it, Jem," he said. "Must, Mas' Don. Go on." Don looked at him wildly, and then in a fit of desperation he lowered himself over the edge, felt a pair of great hands grasp him by the loins, and, as he loosened his hold,	Don Lavington
thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.	No speaker	ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man	on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us,"	he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a	go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to	Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came	then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did	you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion. "Some one knocked him down?" said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did you see him run, Mas' Don? I--oh dear, I can't help it. Do knock me down and sit on me, dear lad--I never--oh dear me!" Jem laughed till Don grew angry, and then the sturdy little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. "I couldn't help it, Mas' Don," he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much before. There, I'm better now. Shan't have any more laugh in me for a twelvemonth. Hiss! Whoss-s-s!" He made the two sounds again, and burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter at the success of his ruse; but this time Don caught him by the throat, and he stopped at once. "Hah!" he ejaculated, and wiped his eyes again. "Thankye, Mas' Don; that's just what you ought to ha' done before. There, it's all over now. What are you going to do?" "Watch them," said Don, laconically; and he crept to the mouth of the cave, and peered cautiously over the edge of the shelf, but all was quiet; and beyond a distant hail or two, heard after listening for some minutes, there was nothing to indicate that the search party had been there. "We must be well on the look-out, Jem. Your stupid trick may bring them back." "Stoopid? Well, I do like that, Mas' Don, after saving us both as I did." "I'd say let's go on at once, only we might meet some of them." "And old `My pakeha' wouldn't know where to find us. I say, Mas' Don, what are we going to do? Stop here with these people, and old Tomati, or go on at once and shift for ourselves?" "We cannot shift for ourselves in a country like this without some way of getting food." "Hush!" exclaimed Jem sharply. "What's the matter?" cried Don, making for the inner part of their hiding-place. "No, no; don't do that. It's all right, Mas' Don, only don't say anything more about food. I feel just now as if I could eat you. It's horrid how hungry I am." "You see then," said Don, "how helpless we are." "Yes; if it was only a biscuit I wouldn't mind just now, for there don't seem to be nothing to eat here, nor nothing to drink." They stood leaning against the rocky wall, not caring to risk sitting down on account of the foul	were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be	Don Lavington
"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."	Mr. Hilbery	me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once.	have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s	me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s	message in little short sentences of extreme intensity. "Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks	have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark." Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity. "Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham." From	the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy. "His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place" "A legal family?" Mrs. Milvain inquired. "I fancy I ve seen the name somewhere." Mr. Hilbery shook his head. "I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life," he observed. "I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I ve a great respect for Denham," he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. "Cassandra s grown into a very charming young woman," he started afresh. "Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?" Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark." Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity. "Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph 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	"Why not come round later and discuss it with her with us both, eh?" "My dear Trevor, I have particular reasons for wishing to talk to you alone.... Where is Katharine?" "She s out with her young man, naturally. Cassandra plays the part of chaperone very usefully. A charming young woman that a great favorite of mine." He turned his stone between his fingers, and conceived different methods of leading Celia away from her obsession, which, he supposed, must have reference to the domestic affairs of Cyril as usual. "With Cassandra," Mrs. Milvain repeated significantly. "With Cassandra." "Yes, with Cassandra," Mr. Hilbery agreed urbanely, pleased at the diversion. "I think they said they were going to Hampton Court, and I rather believe they were taking a protege of mine, Ralph Denham, a very clever fellow, too, to amuse Cassandra. I thought the arrangement very suitable." He was prepared to dwell at some length upon this safe topic, and trusted that Katharine would come in before he had done with it. "Hampton Court always seems to me an ideal spot for engaged couples. There s the Maze, there s a nice place for having tea I forget what they call it and then, if the young man knows his business he contrives to take his lady upon the river. Full of possibilities full. Cake, Celia?" Mr. Hilbery continued. "I respect my dinner too much, but that can t possibly apply to you. You ve never observed that feast, so far as I can remember." Her brother s affability did not deceive Mrs. Milvain; it slightly saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind and infatuated as usual! "Who is this Mr. Denham?" she asked. "Ralph Denham?" said Mr. Hilbery, in relief that her mind had taken this turn. "A very interesting young man. I ve a great belief in him. He s an authority upon our mediaeval institutions, and if he weren t forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants writing" "He is not well off, then?" Mrs. Milvain interposed. "Hasn t a penny, I m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on him." "A mother and sisters? His father is dead?" "Yes, his father died some years ago," said Mr. Hilbery, who was prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs. Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy. "His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place" "A legal family?" Mrs. Milvain inquired. "I fancy I ve seen the name somewhere." Mr. Hilbery shook his head. "I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life," he observed. "I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I ve a great respect for Denham," he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. "Cassandra s grown into a very charming young woman," he started afresh. "Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?" Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark." Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity. "Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph 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?"	affability did not deceive Mrs. Milvain; it slightly saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind and infatuated as usual! "Who is this Mr. Denham?" she asked. "Ralph Denham?" said Mr. Hilbery, in relief that her mind had taken this turn. "A very interesting young man. I ve a great belief in him. He s an authority upon our mediaeval institutions, and if he weren t forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants writing" "He is not well off, then?" Mrs. Milvain interposed. "Hasn t a penny, I m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on him." "A mother and sisters? His father is dead?" "Yes, his father died some years ago," said Mr. Hilbery, who was prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs. Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy. "His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place" "A legal family?" Mrs. Milvain inquired. "I fancy I ve seen the name somewhere." Mr. Hilbery shook his head. "I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life," he observed. "I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I ve a great respect for Denham," he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. "Cassandra s grown into a very charming young woman," he started afresh. "Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?" Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark." Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity. "Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph 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	Night And Day
CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.	No speaker	to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said	after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there	and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a	hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?"	stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?" "What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden	it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?" "What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Winnie-the-Pooh, and Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and	there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck." "It all comes," said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?" "What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Winnie-the-Pooh, and Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and other matters of interest, and Pooh wondering what a Grandfather was like, and if perhaps this was Two Grandfathers they were after now, and, if so, whether he would be allowed to take one home and keep it, and what Christopher Robin would say. And still the tracks went on in front of them.... Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!" cried Piglet. "Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, "because it makes different marks. It is either Two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or Two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them." So they went on, feeling just a little anxious now, in case the three animals in front of them were of Hostile Intent. And Piglet wished very much that his Grandfather T. W. were there, instead of elsewhere, and Pooh thought how nice it would be if they met Christopher Robin suddenly but quite accidentally, and only because he liked Christopher Robin so much. And then, all of a sudden, Winnie-the-Pooh stopped again, and licked the tip of his nose in a cooling manner, for he was feeling more hot and anxious than ever in his life before. _There were four animals in front of them!_ "Do you see, Piglet? Look at their tracks! Three, as it were, Woozles, and one, as it was, Wizzle. _Another Woozle has joined them!_" And so it seemed to be. There were the tracks; crossing over each other here, getting muddled up with each other there; but, quite plainly every now and then, the tracks of four sets of paws. "I _think_," said Piglet, when he had licked the tip of his nose too, and found that it brought very little comfort, "I _think_ that I have just remembered something. I have just remembered something that I forgot to do yesterday and shan't be able to do to-morrow. So I suppose I really ought to go back and do it now." "We'll do it this afternoon, and I'll come with you," said Pooh. "It isn't the sort	you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?" "What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would	Winnie The Pooh
"Yes, that's it,"	Mike Bannock	"Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah!	we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have	I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?"	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 in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the	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 in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war.	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 in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir,	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 in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes	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 in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't	Don Lavington
"Good-bye, Cecil."	Lucy	again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs,	the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three	course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in	bound up in the old vicious notions, and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I must actually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?" "Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it. She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty	say it again. You have taught me better." She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. "Of course, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' or any such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words suggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in you that I hadn't known of up till now." "All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize to me. It was my mistake." "It is a question between ideals, yours and mine--pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions, and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I must actually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?" "Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it. She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George had been thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, that George had gone away into--what was it?--the darkness. She put out the lamp. It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that	in the early stages, before you felt you wouldn't marry me, and so have given me a chance to improve. I have never known you till this evening. I have just used you as a peg for my silly notions of what a woman should be. But this evening you are a different person: new thoughts--even a new voice--" "What do you mean by a new voice?" she asked, seized with incontrollable anger. "I mean that a new person seems speaking through you," said he. Then she lost her balance. She cried: "If you think I am in love with someone else, you are very much mistaken." "Of course I don't think that. You are not that kind, Lucy." "Oh, yes, you do think it. It's your old idea, the idea that has kept Europe back--I mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. If a girl breaks off her engagement, everyone says:" 'Oh, she had some one else in her mind; she hopes to get someone else.' "It's disgusting, brutal! As if a girl can't break it off for the sake of freedom." He answered reverently: "I may have said that in the past. I shall never say it again. You have taught me better." She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. "Of course, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' or any such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words suggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in you that I hadn't known of up till now." "All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize to me. It was my mistake." "It is a question between ideals, yours and mine--pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions, and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I must actually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?" "Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it. She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George had been thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, that George had gone away into--what was it?--the darkness. She put out the lamp. It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that matters--the enemy within. They have sinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry and their piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deities will be avenged. Lucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did not love him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The night received her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before. Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants Windy Corner lay, not on the summit of the ridge, but a few hundred feet down the southern slope, at the springing of one of the great buttresses that supported the hill. On either side of it was a shallow ravine, filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine on the left ran the highway into the Weald. Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and caught sight of these noble dispositions of the earth, and,	she grew more and more vexed at his dignified behaviour. She had counted on his being petty. It would have made things easier for her. By a cruel irony she was drawing out all that was finest in his disposition. "You don't love me, evidently. I dare say you are right not to. But it would hurt a little less if I knew why." "Because" "--a phrase came to her, and she accepted it--" "you're the sort who can't know any one intimately." A horrified look came into his eyes. "I don't mean exactly that. But you will question me, though I beg you not to, and I must say something. It is that, more or less. When we were only acquaintances, you let me be myself, but now you're always protecting me." Her voice swelled. "I won't be protected. I will choose for myself what is ladylike and right. To shield me is an insult. Can't I be trusted to face the truth but I must get it second-hand through you? A woman's place! You despise my mother--I know you do--because she's conventional and bothers over puddings; but, oh goodness!" "--she rose to her feet--" "conventional, Cecil, you're that, for you may understand beautiful things, but you don't know how to use them; and you wrap yourself up in art and books and music, and would try to wrap up me. I won't be stifled, not by the most glorious music, for people are more glorious, and you hide them from me. That's why I break off my engagement. You were all right as long as you kept to things, but when you came to people--" She stopped. There was a pause. Then Cecil said with great emotion: "It is true." "True on the whole," she corrected, full of some vague shame. "True, every word. It is a revelation. It is--I." "Anyhow, those are my reasons for not being your wife." He repeated: "'The sort that can know no one intimately.' "It is true. I fell to pieces the very first day we were engaged. I behaved like a cad to Beebe and to your brother. You are even greater than I thought." She withdrew a step. "I'm not going to worry you. You are far too good to me. I shall never forget your insight; and, dear, I only blame you for this: you might have warned me in the early stages, before you felt you wouldn't marry me, and so have given me a chance to improve. I have never known you till this evening. I have just used you as a peg for my silly notions of what a woman should be. But this evening you are a different person: new thoughts--even a new voice--" "What do you mean by a new voice?" she asked, seized with incontrollable anger. "I mean that a new person seems speaking through you," said he. Then she lost her balance. She cried: "If you think I am in love with someone else, you are very much mistaken." "Of course I don't think that. You are not that kind, Lucy." "Oh, yes, you do think it. It's your old idea, the idea that has kept Europe back--I mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. If a girl breaks off her engagement, everyone says:" 'Oh, she had some one else in her mind; she hopes to get someone else.' "It's disgusting, brutal! As if a girl can't break it off for the sake of freedom." He answered reverently: "I may have said that in the past. I shall never say it again. You have taught me better." She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. "Of course, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' or any such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words suggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in you that I hadn't known of up till now." "All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize to me. It was my mistake." "It is a question between ideals, yours and mine--pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions, and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I must actually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?" "Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it. She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George had been thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, that George had gone away into--what was it?--the darkness. She put out the lamp. It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that matters--the enemy within. They have sinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry and their piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deities will be avenged. Lucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did not love him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The night received her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before. Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants Windy Corner lay, not on the summit of the ridge, but a few hundred feet down the southern slope, at the springing of one of the great buttresses that supported the hill. On either side of it was a shallow ravine, filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine on the left ran the highway into the Weald. Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and caught sight of these noble dispositions of the earth, and, poised in the middle of them, Windy Corner,--he laughed. The situation was so glorious, the house so commonplace, not to say impertinent. The late Mr. Honeychurch had affected the cube, because it gave him the most accommodation for his money, and the only addition made by his widow had been a small turret, shaped like a rhinoceros' horn, where she could sit in wet weather and watch the carts going up and down the road. So impertinent--and yet the house "did," for it was the home of people who loved their surroundings honestly. Other houses in the neighborhood had been built by expensive architects, over others their inmates had fidgeted sedulously, yet all these suggested the accidental, the temporary; while Windy Corner seemed as inevitable as an ugliness of Nature's own creation. One might laugh at the house, but one never shuddered. Mr. Beebe was bicycling over this Monday afternoon with a piece of gossip. He had heard from the Miss Alans. These admirable ladies, since they could not go to Cissie Villa, had changed their plans. They were going to Greece instead. "Since Florence did my poor sister so much good," wrote Miss Catharine, "we do not see why we should not try Athens this winter. Of course, Athens is a plunge, and the doctor has ordered her special digestive bread; but, after all, we can take that with us, and it is only getting first into a steamer and then into a train. But is there an English Church?" And the letter went on to say: "I do not expect we shall go any further than Athens, but if you knew of a really comfortable pension at Constantinople, we should be so grateful." Lucy would enjoy this letter, and the smile with which Mr. Beebe greeted Windy Corner was partly for her. She would see the fun of it, and some of its beauty, for she must see some beauty. Though she was hopeless about pictures, and though she dressed so unevenly--oh, that cerise frock yesterday at church!--she must see some beauty in life, or she could not play the piano as she did. He had a theory that musicians are incredibly complex, and know far less than other artists what they want and what they are; that they puzzle themselves as well as their friends; that their psychology is a modern development, and has not yet been	someone else, you are very much mistaken." "Of course I don't think that. You are not that kind, Lucy." "Oh, yes, you do think it. It's your old idea, the idea that has kept Europe back--I mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. If a girl breaks off her engagement, everyone says:" 'Oh, she had some one else in her mind; she hopes to get someone else.' "It's disgusting, brutal! As if a girl can't break it off for the sake of freedom." He answered reverently: "I may have said that in the past. I shall never say it again. You have taught me better." She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. "Of course, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' or any such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words suggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in you that I hadn't known of up till now." "All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize to me. It was my mistake." "It is a question between ideals, yours and mine--pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions, and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I must actually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?" "Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it. She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George had been thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, that George had gone away into--what was it?--the darkness. She put out the lamp. It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that matters--the enemy within. They have sinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry and their piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deities will be avenged. Lucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did not love him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The night received her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before. Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants Windy Corner lay, not on the summit of the ridge, but a few hundred feet down the southern slope, at the springing of one of the great buttresses that supported the hill. On either side of it was a shallow ravine, filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine on the left ran the highway into the Weald. Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and caught sight of these noble dispositions of the earth, and, poised in the middle of them, Windy Corner,--he laughed. The situation was so glorious, the house so commonplace, not to say impertinent. The late Mr. Honeychurch had affected the cube, because it gave him the most accommodation for his money, and the only addition made by his widow had been a small turret, shaped like a rhinoceros' horn, where she could sit in wet weather and watch the carts going up and down the road. So impertinent--and yet the house "did," for it was the home of people who loved their surroundings honestly. Other houses in the neighborhood had been built by expensive architects, over others their inmates had fidgeted sedulously, yet all these suggested the accidental, the temporary; while Windy Corner seemed as inevitable as an ugliness of Nature's own creation. One might laugh at the house, but one never shuddered. Mr. Beebe was bicycling over this Monday afternoon with a piece of gossip. He	A Room With A View
"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"	Bill Sikes	to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal	were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim	up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing	were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other," said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the	dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other," said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can	"And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!" Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other," said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can hear it," said Nancy. "Of course they can," replied Sikes. "It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door." "Poor fellow!" said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. "Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!" "Yes; that's all you women think of," answered Sikes. "Fine young chaps! Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter." With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him to step out again. "Wait a minute!" said the girl: "I wouldn't hurry by, if it was you that was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'd walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn't a shawl to cover me." "And what	such distress on your account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I've found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I've found him!" With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a butcher's boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was also looking on, whether he didn't think he had better run for the doctor. To which, the butcher's boy: who appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought not. "Oh, no, no, never mind," said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand; "I'm better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!" "Oh, ma'am," replied the young woman, "he ran away, near a month ago, from his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother's heart." "Young wretch!" said one woman. "Go home, do, you little brute," said the other. "I am not," replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. "I don't know her. I haven't any sister, or father and mother either. I'm an orphan; I live at Pentonville." "Only hear him, how he braves it out!" cried the young woman. "Why, it's Nancy!" exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first time; and started back, in irrepressible astonishment. "You see he knows me!" cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. "He can't help himself. Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!" "What the devil's this?" said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels; "young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young dog! Come home directly." "I don't belong to them. I don't know them. Help! help!" cried Oliver, struggling in the man's powerful grasp. "Help!" repeated the man. "Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal! What books are these? You've been a stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em here." With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head. "That's right!" cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. "That's the only way of bringing him to his senses!" "To be sure!" cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garret-window. "It'll do him good!" said the two women. "And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!" Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other," said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can hear it," said Nancy. "Of course they can," replied Sikes. "It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door." "Poor fellow!" said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. "Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!" "Yes; that's all you women think of," answered Sikes. "Fine young chaps! Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter." With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him to step out again. "Wait a minute!" said the girl: "I wouldn't hurry by, if it was you that was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'd walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn't a shawl to cover me." "And what good would that do?" inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. "Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the good it would do me. Come on, and don't stand preaching there." The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white. They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour: meeting very few people, and those appearing from their looks to hold much the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself. At length they turned into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothes shops; the dog running forward, as if conscious that there was no further occasion for his keeping on guard, stopped before the door of a shop that was closed and apparently untenanted; the house was in a ruinous condition, and on the door was nailed a board, intimating that it was to let: which looked as if it had hung there for many years. "All right," cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about. Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. They crossed to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few moments under a lamp. A noise, as if a sash window were gently raised, was heard; and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes then seized the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and all three were quickly inside the house. The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let them in, chained and barred the door. "Anybody here?" inquired Sikes. "No," replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before. "Is the old 'un here?" asked the robber. "Yes," replied the voice, "and precious down in the mouth he has been. Won't he be glad to see you? Oh, no!" The style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it, seemed familiar to Oliver's ears: but it was impossible to distinguish even the form of the speaker in the darkness. "Let's have a glim," said Sikes, "or we shall go breaking our necks, or treading on the	grasp, and struck him on the head. "That's right!" cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. "That's the only way of bringing him to his senses!" "To be sure!" cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garret-window. "It'll do him good!" said the two women. "And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!" Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other," said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can hear it," said Nancy. "Of course they can," replied Sikes. "It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door." "Poor fellow!" said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. "Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!" "Yes; that's all you women think of," answered Sikes. "Fine young chaps! Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter." With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him to step out again. "Wait a minute!" said the girl: "I wouldn't hurry by, if it was you that was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'd walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn't a shawl to cover me." "And what good would that do?" inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. "Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the good it would do me. Come on, and don't stand preaching there." The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white. They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour: meeting very few people,	Oliver Twist
"Victor!"	Madame Lebrun	to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and	look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow	rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited	Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the	the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere," looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. "He	arm from the curtain which shielded her open door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a _bon gar on_, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward "the house." The lovers were just entering the grounds of the _pension_. They were leaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere," looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. "He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way	as little reflection as we might expect from one of those children down there playing in the sand. If your attentions to any married women here were ever offered with any intention of being convincing, you would not be the gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to associate with the wives and daughters of the people who trust you." Madame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and the gospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "Oh! well! That isn't it," slamming his hat down vehemently upon his head. "You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to a fellow." "Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments? _Ma foi!_" "It isn't pleasant to have a woman tell you" he went on, unheedingly, but breaking off suddenly: "Now if I were like Arobin you remember Alc e Arobin and that story of the consul's wife at Biloxi?" And he related the story of Alc e Arobin and the consul's wife; and another about the tenor of the French Opera, who received letters which should never have been written; and still other stories, grave and gay, till Mrs. Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men seriously was apparently forgotten. Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take the hour's rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her, Robert begged her pardon for the impatience he called it rudeness with which he had received her well-meant caution. "You made one mistake, Ad le," he said, with a light smile; "there is no earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You should have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice might then have carried some weight and given me subject for some reflection. _Au revoir_. But you look tired," he added, solicitously. "Would you like a cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy with a drop of Angostura." She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty S vres cup, with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer. She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a _bon gar on_, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward "the house." The lovers were just entering the grounds of the _pension_. They were leaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere," looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. "He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more general tone to the conversation. Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority felt. Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin's colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from "Zampa," and at the earnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant." "_Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_" shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first time that summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected; and his decrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot fortunately offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and hurled against the twins in that one impetuous outburst. Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one present had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the city. A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The mother played her accompaniments and at the same	black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere," looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. "He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter!	The Awakening
"To Cologne."	A nurse	the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick	his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the	I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes	false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer	his bed with his plaster bandage. What do you want then?" she says, turning to me. I am in mortal terror at this new turn, for I haven't any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help. "Little or big?" This shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: "Well, only quite a little one----" At any rate, it produces the effect. I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided.	my pulse and smooths my forehead. "You haven't any fever, though." "No." I agree. "Have you been dreaming then?" she asks. "Perhaps----" I evade. The interrogation starts again. She looks at me with her clear eyes, and the more wonderful and sweet she is the less am I able to tell her what I want. I am lifted up into bed again. That will be all right. As soon as she goes I must try to climb down again. If she were an old woman, it might be easier to say what a man wants, but she is so very young, at the most twenty-five, it can't be done, I cannot possibly tell her. Then Albert comes to my rescue, he is not bashful, it makes no difference to him who is upset. He calls to the sister. She turns round. "Sister, he wants----" but no more does Albert know how to express it modestly and decently. Out there we say it in a single word, but here, to such a lady---- All at once he remembers his school days and finishes hastily: "He wants to leave the room, sister." "Ah!" says the sister, "but he shouldn't climb out of his bed with his plaster bandage. What do you want then?" she says, turning to me. I am in mortal terror at this new turn, for I haven't any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help. "Little or big?" This shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: "Well, only quite a little one----" At any rate, it produces the effect. I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it	cast a glance at the bed. It is covered with clean snow-white linen, that even has the marks of the iron still on it. And my shirt has gone six weeks without being washed and is terribly muddy. "Can't you get in by yourself?" asks the sister gently. "Why yes," I say in a sweat, "but take off the bed cover first." "What for?" I feel like a pig. Must I get in there?-- "It will get----" I hesitate. "A little bit dirty?" she suggests helpfully. "That doesn't matter, we will wash it again afterwards." "No, no, not that----" I say excitedly. I am not equal to such overwhelming refinement. "When you have been lying out there in the trenches, surely we can wash a sheet," she goes on. I look at her, she is young and crisp, spotless and neat, like everything here; a man cannot realize that it isn't for officers only, and feels himself strange and in some way even alarmed. All the same, the woman is a tormentor, she is going to force me to say it. "It is only----" I try again, surely she must know what I mean. "What is it then?" "Because of the lice," I bawl out at last. She laughs. "Well, they must have a good day for once, too." Now I don't care any more. I scramble into bed and pull up the covers. A hand gropes over the bed-cover. The sergeant-major. He goes off with the cigars. An hour later we notice that we are moving. At night I cannot sleep. Kropp is restless too. The train rides easily over the rails. I cannot realize it all yet; a bed, a train, home. "Albert!" I whisper. "Yes----" "Do you know where the latrine is?" "Over to the right of the door, I think." "I'm going to have a look." It is dark, I grope for the edge of the bed and cautiously try to slide down. But my foot finds no support, I begin to slip, the plaster leg is no help, and with a crash I lie on the floor. "Damn!" I say. "Have you bumped yourself?" asks Kropp. "You could hear that well enough for yourself," I growl, "my head----" A door opens in the rear of the car. The sister comes with a light and looks at me. "He has fallen out of bed----" She feels my pulse and smooths my forehead. "You haven't any fever, though." "No." I agree. "Have you been dreaming then?" she asks. "Perhaps----" I evade. The interrogation starts again. She looks at me with her clear eyes, and the more wonderful and sweet she is the less am I able to tell her what I want. I am lifted up into bed again. That will be all right. As soon as she goes I must try to climb down again. If she were an old woman, it might be easier to say what a man wants, but she is so very young, at the most twenty-five, it can't be done, I cannot possibly tell her. Then Albert comes to my rescue, he is not bashful, it makes no difference to him who is upset. He calls to the sister. She turns round. "Sister, he wants----" but no more does Albert know how to express it modestly and decently. Out there we say it in a single word, but here, to such a lady---- All at once he remembers his school days and finishes hastily: "He wants to leave the room, sister." "Ah!" says the sister, "but he shouldn't climb out of his bed with his plaster bandage. What do you want then?" she says, turning to me. I am in mortal terror at this new turn, for I haven't any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help. "Little or big?" This shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: "Well, only quite a little one----" At any rate, it produces the effect. I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!" I say, "just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again. "Shut the door," I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert. "Shut the door!" we yell. They withdraw. The little one who came first is the last to go. "Heathen," she chirps, but shuts the door all the same. We have won. * * At noon the hospital inspector arrives and abuses us. He threatens us with clink and all the rest of it. But a hospital inspector is just the same as a commissariat inspector, or any one else who wears a long dagger and shoulder straps, but is really a clerk, and is never considered even by a recruit as a real officer. So we let him talk. What can they do to us, anyway---- "Who threw the bottle?" he asks. Before I can think whether I should report myself, someone says: "I did." A man with a bristling beard sits up. Everyone is excited; why should he report himself? "You?" "Yes. I was annoyed because we were waked up unnecessarily and lost my senses so that I did not know what I was doing." He talks like a book. "What is your name?" "Reinforcement-Reservist Josef Hamacher." The inspector departs. We	laughs. "Well, they must have a good day for once, too." Now I don't care any more. I scramble into bed and pull up the covers. A hand gropes over the bed-cover. The sergeant-major. He goes off with the cigars. An hour later we notice that we are moving. At night I cannot sleep. Kropp is restless too. The train rides easily over the rails. I cannot realize it all yet; a bed, a train, home. "Albert!" I whisper. "Yes----" "Do you know where the latrine is?" "Over to the right of the door, I think." "I'm going to have a look." It is dark, I grope for the edge of the bed and cautiously try to slide down. But my foot finds no support, I begin to slip, the plaster leg is no help, and with a crash I lie on the floor. "Damn!" I say. "Have you bumped yourself?" asks Kropp. "You could hear that well enough for yourself," I growl, "my head----" A door opens in the rear of the car. The sister comes with a light and looks at me. "He has fallen out of bed----" She feels my pulse and smooths my forehead. "You haven't any fever, though." "No." I agree. "Have you been dreaming then?" she asks. "Perhaps----" I evade. The interrogation starts again. She looks at me with her clear eyes, and the more wonderful and sweet she is the less am I able to tell her what I want. I am lifted up into bed again. That will be all right. As soon as she goes I must try to climb down again. If she were an old woman, it might be easier to say what a man wants, but she is so very young, at the most twenty-five, it can't be done, I cannot possibly tell her. Then Albert comes to my rescue, he is not bashful, it makes no difference to him who is upset. He calls to the sister. She turns round. "Sister, he wants----" but no more does Albert know how to express it modestly and decently. Out there we say it in a single word, but here, to such a lady---- All at once he remembers his school days and finishes hastily: "He wants to leave the room, sister." "Ah!" says the sister, "but he shouldn't climb out of his bed with his plaster bandage. What do you want then?" she says, turning to me. I am in mortal terror at this new turn, for I haven't any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help. "Little or big?" This shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: "Well, only quite a little one----" At any rate, it produces the effect. I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door	All Quiet on the Western Front
"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."	Dorcas	a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so	mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was	"No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign	"Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the	things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by	and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say	asked: "Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?" "Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday" "What time was that?" "I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a long way. Perhaps four o'clock or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn't exactly mean to listen, but well, there it is. I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly." You have lied to me, and deceived me,' "she said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorp replied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did but she answered:" How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our name!' "Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went on:" Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' "Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly." "You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?" "Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?" "Well, what happened next?" "Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea nothing to eat to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful so white and upset." Dorcas,' "she says," I've had a great shock.' I'm sorry for that, m'm,' "I says." You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' "She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say that I do." "Look at the label." I read the label carefully: " One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' "No, I see nothing unusual." "Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!" "Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?" "No, I can't say that I have." I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking: "Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend." An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply. Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy. Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness. "I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?" Annie considered. "There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don't remember." "Think," urged Poirot. Annie racked her brains in vain. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it." "It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some cocoa in it. Did she have that every night?" "Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night whenever she fancied it." "What was it? Plain cocoa?" "Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it." "Who took it to her room?" "I did, sir." "Always?" "Yes, sir." "At what time?" "When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir." "Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?" "No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so cook used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then	and told me to bring her a cup of tea nothing to eat to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful so white and upset." Dorcas,' "she says," I've had a great shock.' I'm sorry for that, m'm,' "I says." You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' "She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.	No speaker	course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I	arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for	suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits	have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and	The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal	turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now, for Helen s child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, "Oh, take care--!" for something moved behind the window of the hall, and the door opened. "The conclave s breaking at last. I ll go." It was Paul. Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black moustache. "My father has asked for you," he said with hostility. She took her work and followed him. "We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand." "Yes, I did." Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to take Dolly s boa and gloves out of a vase. Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?" Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, piccaninnies included." Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don t, Paul. You promised you d take care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave. Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don t you worry about me." "Good-bye, dad." Then it was Dolly s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all." From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret, and kissed her. And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea. "Good-bye." "Good-bye, Dolly." "So long, father." "Good-bye, my boy; always take	and she took off her pince-nez to watch it. "You!" cried Helen. "You did it all, sweetest, though you re too stupid to see. Living here was your plan--I wanted you; he wanted you; and everyone said it was impossible, but you knew. Just think of our lives without you, Meg--I and baby with Monica, revolting by theory, he handed about from Dolly to Evie. But you picked up the pieces, and made us a home. Can t it strike you--even for a moment--that your life has been heroic? Can t you remember the two months after Charles s arrest, when you began to act, and did all?" "You were both ill at the time," said Margaret. "I did the obvious things. I had two invalids to nurse. Here was a house, ready furnished and empty. It was obvious. I didn t know myself it would turn into a permanent home. No doubt I have done a little towards straightening the tangle, but things that I can t phrase have helped me." "I hope it will be permanent," said Helen, drifting away to other thoughts. "I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards End peculiarly our own." "All the same, London s creeping." She pointed over the meadow--over eight or nine meadows, but at the end of them was a red rust. "You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now," she continued. "I can see it from the Purbeck Downs. And London is only part of something else, I m afraid. Life s going to be melted down, all over the world." Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End, Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were all survivals, and the melting-pot was being prepared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. One s hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth beating time? "Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go strong for ever," she said. "This craze for motion has only set in during the last hundred years. It may be followed by a civilisation that won t be a movement, because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are against it now, but I can t help hoping, and very early in the morning in the garden I feel that our house is the future as well as the past." They turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now, for Helen s child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, "Oh, take care--!" for something moved behind the window of the hall, and the door opened. "The conclave s breaking at last. I ll go." It was Paul. Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black moustache. "My father has asked for you," he said with hostility. She took her work and followed him. "We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand." "Yes, I did." Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to take Dolly s boa and gloves out of a vase. Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?" Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, piccaninnies included." Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don t, Paul. You promised you d take care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave. Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don t you worry about me." "Good-bye, dad." Then it was Dolly s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all." From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret, and kissed her. And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea. "Good-bye." "Good-bye, Dolly." "So long, father." "Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself." "Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox." "Good-bye." Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her husband and laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But Dolly s remark had interested her. At last she said: "Could you tell me, Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?" Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is a very old story. When she was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some return, and, not being herself at the time, scribbled Howards End on a piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was clearly fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my Margaret would be to me in the future." Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its inmost recesses, and she shivered. "I didn t do wrong, did I?" he asked, bending down. "You didn t, darling. Nothing has been done wrong." From the garden came laughter. "Here they are at last!" exclaimed Henry, disengaging himself with a smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding Tom by one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There were shouts of infectious joy. "The field s cut!" Helen cried excitedly--" "the big meadow! We ve seen to the very end, and it ll be such a crop of hay as never!" WEYBRIDGE, 1908-1910.	meadows, but at the end of them was a red rust. "You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now," she continued. "I can see it from the Purbeck Downs. And London is only part of something else, I m afraid. Life s going to be melted down, all over the world." Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End, Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were all survivals, and the melting-pot was being prepared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. One s hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth beating time? "Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go strong for ever," she said. "This craze for motion has only set in during the last hundred years. It may be followed by a civilisation that won t be a movement, because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are against it now, but I can t help hoping, and very early in the morning in the garden I feel that our house is the future as well as the past." They turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now, for Helen s child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, "Oh, take care--!" for something moved behind the window of the hall, and the door opened. "The conclave s breaking at last. I ll go." It was Paul. Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black moustache. "My father has asked for you," he said with hostility. She took her work and followed him. "We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand." "Yes, I did." Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to take Dolly s boa and gloves out of a vase. Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?" Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, piccaninnies included." Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don t, Paul. You promised you d take care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave. Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don t you worry about me." "Good-bye, dad." Then it was Dolly s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all." From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret, and kissed her. And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea. "Good-bye." "Good-bye, Dolly." "So long, father." "Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself." "Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox." "Good-bye." Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her husband and laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But Dolly s remark had interested her. At last she said: "Could you tell me, Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?" Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is a very old story. When she was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some return, and, not being herself at the time, scribbled Howards End on a piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was	Howards End
said the one who had spoken first.	No speaker	to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business,	say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it	"I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon	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 go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a	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 go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to	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 go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they	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 go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!" said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on, "What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should _I_ know?" said Alice, surprised at her own courage. "It's no business of _mine_." The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed "Off with her head! Off--" "Nonsense!" said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent. The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said "Consider, my dear: she is only a child!" The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave "Turn them over!" The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot. "Get up!" said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the royal children, and everybody else. "Leave off that!" screamed the Queen. "You make me giddy." And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on, "What _have_ you been doing here?" "May it please your Majesty," said Two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke, "we were trying--" "_I_ see!" said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. "Off with their heads!" and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection. "You shan't be beheaded!" said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two,	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 go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!" said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on, "What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should _I_ know?" said Alice, surprised at her own courage. "It's no business of _mine_." The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed "Off	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."	Margaret	dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other	condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was	it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat	house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go	he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If	is the end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were, A beautiful ending." "She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact." "Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it." "I don t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then	own was as good. You may have guessed something, even though your sister said nothing. The slightest hint would help us." "Who is we ?" "I thought it best to ring up Charles." "That was unnecessary," said Margaret, growing warmer. "This news will give Charles disproportionate pain." "He has at once gone to call on your brother." "That too was unnecessary." "Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You don t think that I and my son are other than gentlemen? It is in Helen s interests that we are acting. It is still not too late to save her name." Then Margaret hit out for the first time. "Are we to make her seducer marry her?" she asked. "If possible, yes." "But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married already? One has heard of such cases." "In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, and be thrashed within an inch of his life." So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. What had tempted her to imperil both of their lives. Henry s obtuseness had saved her as well as himself. Exhausted with anger, she sat down again, blinking at him as he told her as much as he thought fit. At last she said: "May I ask you my question now?" "Certainly, my dear." "To-morrow Helen goes to Munich--" "Well, possibly she is right." "Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; to-night, with your permission, she would like to sleep at Howards End." It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have recalled the words as soon as they were uttered. She had not led up to them with sufficient care. She longed to warn him that they were far more important than he supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they were a business proposition. "Why Howards End?" he said at last. "Would she not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?" Margaret hastened to give him reasons. "It is an odd request, but you know what Helen is and what women in her state are." He frowned, and moved irritably. "She has the idea that one night in your house would give her pleasure and do her good. I think she s right. Being one of those imaginative girls, the presence of all our books and furniture soothes her. This is a fact. It is the end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were, A beautiful ending." "She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact." "Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it." "I don t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don t repent. Only say to yourself, What Helen has done, I ve done." "The two cases are different," Henry stammered. His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. "In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society, Helen can t. You have had only pleasure, she may die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?" Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry s retort came. "I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her husband. My rule through life has been never to pay the least attention to threats, and I can only repeat what I said before: I do not give you and your sister leave to sleep at Howards End." Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, wiping first one and then the other on his handkerchief. For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out into what was now the evening. CHAPTER XXXIX Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the latter was staying. Their interview was short and absurd. They had nothing in common but the English language, and tried by its help to express what neither of them understood. Charles saw in Helen the family foe. He had singled her out as the most dangerous of the Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked forward to telling his wife how right he had been. His mind was made up at once; the girl must be got out of the way before she disgraced them farther. If occasion offered she might be married to a villain, or, possibly, to a fool. But this was a concession to morality, it formed no part of his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles s dislike, and the past spread itself out very clearly before him; hatred is a	in fact." "Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it." "I don t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she	Howards End
"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"	Charlotte	very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we	to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I	few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty,"	all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in	for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room "you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer "then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and	park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room "you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer "then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. "My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?" "I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you." Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely	some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer s eye was now caught by the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them. "Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look, mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the room. When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around. "My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing. He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. He then made his bow, and departed with the rest. Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield. "Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone. "The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or with us." "They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor, "by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere." CHAPTER XX. As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room "you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer "then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. "My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?" "I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you." Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do, and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful! My love," applying to her husband, "don t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?" "Certainly," he replied, with a sneer "I came into Devonshire with no other view." "There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he	and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield. "Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone. "The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or with us." "They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor, "by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere." CHAPTER XX. As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room "you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer "then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. "My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?" "I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you." Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was	Sense And Sensibility
"Some one--has come here to meet you?"	Newland Archer	back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She	the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of	of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval	House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must	The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the	her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. He saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took another plunge. "And the person?" "-- "The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..." "And you came out here to think the chance over?" "I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's too stifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back to Portsmouth." They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "You're not changed." He felt like answering: "I was, till I saw you again;" but instead he stood up abruptly and glanced about him at the untidy sweltering park. "This is horrible. Why shouldn't we go out a little on the bay? There's a breeze,	on to New York the following evening. It had always been understood that he would return to town early in the week, and when he got back from his expedition to Portsmouth a letter from the office, which fate had conspicuously placed on a corner of the hall table, sufficed to justify his sudden change of plan. He was even ashamed of the ease with which the whole thing had been done: it reminded him, for an uncomfortable moment, of Lawrence Lefferts's masterly contrivances for securing his freedom. But this did not long trouble him, for he was not in an analytic mood. After breakfast he smoked a cigarette and glanced over the Commercial Advertiser. While he was thus engaged two or three men he knew came in, and the usual greetings were exchanged: it was the same world after all, though he had such a queer sense of having slipped through the meshes of time and space. He looked at his watch, and finding that it was half-past nine got up and went into the writing-room. There he wrote a few lines, and ordered a messenger to take a cab to the Parker House and wait for the answer. He then sat down behind another newspaper and tried to calculate how long it would take a cab to get to the Parker House. "The lady was out, sir," he suddenly heard a waiter's voice at his elbow; and he stammered: "Out?--" as if it were a word in a strange language. He got up and went into the hall. It must be a mistake: she could not be out at that hour. He flushed with anger at his own stupidity: why had he not sent the note as soon as he arrived? He found his hat and stick and went forth into the street. The city had suddenly become as strange and vast and empty as if he were a traveller from distant lands. For a moment he stood on the door-step hesitating; then he decided to go to the Parker House. What if the messenger had been misinformed, and she were still there? He started to walk across the Common; and on the first bench, under a tree, he saw her sitting. She had a grey silk sunshade over her head--how could he ever have imagined her with a pink one? As he approached he was struck by her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. He saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took another plunge. "And the person?" "-- "The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..." "And you came out here to think the chance over?" "I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's too stifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back to Portsmouth." They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "You're not changed." He felt like answering: "I was, till I saw you again;" but instead he stood up abruptly and glanced about him at the untidy sweltering park. "This is horrible. Why shouldn't we go out a little on the bay? There's a breeze, and it will be cooler. We might take the steamboat down to Point Arley." She glanced up at him hesitatingly and he went on: "On a Monday morning there won't be anybody on the boat. My train doesn't leave till evening: I'm going back to New York. Why shouldn't we?" he insisted, looking down at her; and suddenly he broke out: "Haven't we done all we could?" "Oh" "--she murmured again. She stood up and reopened her sunshade, glancing about her as if to take counsel of the scene, and assure herself of the impossibility of remaining in it. Then her eyes returned to his face. "You mustn't say things like that to me," she said. "I'll say anything you like; or nothing. I won't open my mouth unless you tell me to. What harm can it do to anybody? All I want is to listen to you," he stammered. She drew out a little gold-faced watch on an enamelled chain. "Oh, don't calculate," he broke out; "give me the day! I want to get you away from that man. At what time was he coming?" Her colour rose again. "At eleven." "Then you must come at once." "You needn't be afraid--if I don't come." "Nor you either--if you do. I swear I only want to hear about you, to know what you've been doing. It's a hundred years since we've met--it may be another hundred before we meet again." She still wavered, her anxious eyes on his face. "Why didn't you come down to the beach to fetch me, the day I was at Granny's?" she asked. "Because you didn't look round--because you didn't know I was there. I swore I wouldn't unless you looked round." He laughed as the childishness of the confession struck him. "But I didn't look round on purpose." "On purpose?" "I knew you were there; when you drove in I recognised the ponies. So I went down to the beach." "To get away from me as far as you could?" She repeated in a low voice: "To get away from you as far as I could." He laughed out again, this time in boyish satisfaction. "Well, you see it's no use. I may as well tell you," he added, "that the business I came here for was just to find you. But, look here, we must start or we shall miss our boat." "Our	by her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. He saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took	The Age Of Innocence
"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"	Ralph Denham	hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that	not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her	her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her.	question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own	they known where to send her. Katharine s common sense, which had been in abeyance for the past week or two, still failed her, and she could only ask, "But where s your luggage?" in the vague belief that to take lodgings depended entirely upon a sufficiency of luggage. Cassandra s reply, "I ve lost my luggage," in no way helped her to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!" she observed, in a general	she would plunge into Katharine s heart, appeared to Ralph more probable than another, and he pushed first into the dining-room to avert the blow. Then he exclaimed "Cassandra!" with such heartiness at the sight of Cassandra Otway standing by the dining-room table that she put her finger to her lips and begged him to be quiet. "Nobody must know I m here," she explained in a sepulchral whisper. "I missed my train. I have been wandering about London all day. I can bear it no longer. Katharine, what am I to do?" Katharine pushed forward a chair; Ralph hastily found wine and poured it out for her. If not actually fainting, she was very near it. "William s upstairs," said Ralph, as soon as she appeared to be recovered. "I ll go and ask him to come down to you." His own happiness had given him a confidence that every one else was bound to be happy too. But Cassandra had her uncle s commands and anger too vividly in her mind to dare any such defiance. She became agitated and said that she must leave the house at once. She was not in a condition to go, had they known where to send her. Katharine s common sense, which had been in abeyance for the past week or two, still failed her, and she could only ask, "But where s your luggage?" in the vague belief that to take lodgings depended entirely upon a sufficiency of luggage. Cassandra s reply, "I ve lost my luggage," in no way helped her to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!" she observed, in a general way. "William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing precisely it was. "I find Cassandra," she repeated. "She missed her train," Katharine interposed, seeing that Cassandra was unable to speak. "Life," began Mrs. Hilbery, drawing inspiration from the portraits on the wall apparently, "consists in missing trains and in finding" But she pulled herself up and remarked that the kettle must have boiled completely over everything. To Katharine s agitated mind it appeared that this kettle was an enormous kettle, capable of deluging the house in its incessant showers of steam, the enraged representative of all those household duties which she had neglected. She ran hastily up to the drawing-room, and the rest followed her, for Mrs. Hilbery put her arm round Cassandra and drew her upstairs. They found Rodney observing the kettle with uneasiness but with such absence of mind that Katharine s catastrophe was in a fair way to be fulfilled. In putting the matter straight no greetings were exchanged, but Rodney and Cassandra chose seats as far apart as	from her hand in shame and despair when he saw her actually contemplating the idiotic symbol of his most confused and emotional moments. He was convinced that it could mean nothing to another, although somehow to him it conveyed not only Katharine herself but all those states of mind which had clustered round her since he first saw her pouring out tea on a Sunday afternoon. It represented by its circumference of smudges surrounding a central blot all that encircling glow which for him surrounded, inexplicably, so many of the objects of life, softening their sharp outline, so that he could see certain streets, books, and situations wearing a halo almost perceptible to the physical eye. Did she smile? Did she put the paper down wearily, condemning it not only for its inadequacy but for its falsity? Was she going to protest once more that he only loved the vision of her? But it did not occur to her that this diagram had anything to do with her. She said simply, and in the same tone of reflection: "Yes, the world looks something like that to me too." He received her assurance with profound joy. Quietly and steadily there rose up behind the whole aspect of life that soft edge of fire which gave its red tint to the atmosphere and crowded the scene with shadows so deep and dark that one could fancy pushing farther into their density and still farther, exploring indefinitely. Whether there was any correspondence between the two prospects now opening before them they shared the same sense of the impending future, vast, mysterious, infinitely stored with undeveloped shapes which each would unwrap for the other to behold; but for the present the prospect of the future was enough to fill them with silent adoration. At any rate, their further attempts to communicate articulately were interrupted by a knock on the door, and the entrance of a maid who, with a due sense of mystery, announced that a lady wished to see Miss Hilbery, but refused to allow her name to be given. When Katharine rose, with a profound sigh, to resume her duties, Ralph went with her, and neither of them formulated any guess, on their way downstairs, as to who this anonymous lady might prove to be. Perhaps the fantastic notion that she was a little black hunchback provided with a steel knife, which she would plunge into Katharine s heart, appeared to Ralph more probable than another, and he pushed first into the dining-room to avert the blow. Then he exclaimed "Cassandra!" with such heartiness at the sight of Cassandra Otway standing by the dining-room table that she put her finger to her lips and begged him to be quiet. "Nobody must know I m here," she explained in a sepulchral whisper. "I missed my train. I have been wandering about London all day. I can bear it no longer. Katharine, what am I to do?" Katharine pushed forward a chair; Ralph hastily found wine and poured it out for her. If not actually fainting, she was very near it. "William s upstairs," said Ralph, as soon as she appeared to be recovered. "I ll go and ask him to come down to you." His own happiness had given him a confidence that every one else was bound to be happy too. But Cassandra had her uncle s commands and anger too vividly in her mind to dare any such defiance. She became agitated and said that she must leave the house at once. She was not in a condition to go, had they known where to send her. Katharine s common sense, which had been in abeyance for the past week or two, still failed her, and she could only ask, "But where s your luggage?" in the vague belief that to take lodgings depended entirely upon a sufficiency of luggage. Cassandra s reply, "I ve lost my luggage," in no way helped her to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!" she observed, in a general way. "William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing precisely it was. "I find Cassandra," she repeated. "She missed her train," Katharine interposed, seeing that Cassandra was unable to speak. "Life," began Mrs. Hilbery, drawing inspiration from the portraits on the wall apparently, "consists in missing trains and in finding" But she pulled herself up and remarked that the kettle must have boiled completely over everything. To Katharine s agitated mind it appeared that this kettle was an enormous kettle, capable of deluging the house in its incessant showers of steam, the enraged representative of all those household duties which she had neglected. She ran hastily up to the drawing-room, and the rest followed her, for Mrs. Hilbery put her arm round Cassandra and drew her upstairs. They found Rodney observing the kettle with uneasiness but with such absence of mind that Katharine s catastrophe was in a fair way to be fulfilled. In putting the matter straight no greetings were exchanged, but Rodney and Cassandra chose seats as far apart as possible, and sat down with an air of people making a very temporary lodgment. Either Mrs. Hilbery was impervious to their discomfort, or chose to ignore it, or thought it high time that the subject was changed, for she did nothing but talk about Shakespeare s tomb. "So much earth and so much water and that sublime spirit brooding over it all," she mused, and went on to sing her strange, half-earthly song of dawns and sunsets, of great poets, and the unchanged spirit of noble loving which they had taught, so that nothing changes, and one age is linked with another, and no one dies, and we all meet in spirit, until she appeared oblivious of any one in the room. But suddenly her remarks seemed to contract the enormously wide circle in which they were soaring and to alight, airily and temporarily, upon matters of more immediate moment. "Katharine and Ralph," she said, as if to try the sound. "William and Cassandra." "I feel myself in an entirely false position," said William desperately, thrusting himself into this breach in her reflections. "I ve no right to be sitting here. Mr. Hilbery told me yesterday to leave the house. I d no intention of coming back again. I shall now" "I feel the same too," Cassandra interrupted. "After what Uncle Trevor said to me last night" "I have put you into a most odious position," Rodney went on, rising from his seat, in which movement he was imitated simultaneously by Cassandra. "Until I have your father s consent I have no right to speak to you let alone in this house, where my conduct" he looked at Katharine, stammered, and fell silent "where my conduct has been reprehensible and inexcusable in the extreme," he forced himself to continue. "I have explained everything to your mother. She is so generous as to try and make me believe that I have done no harm you have convinced her that my behavior, selfish and weak as it was selfish and weak" he repeated, like a speaker who has lost his notes. Two emotions seemed to be struggling in Katharine; one the desire to laugh at the ridiculous spectacle of William making her a formal speech across the tea-table, the other a desire to weep at the sight of something childlike and honest in him which touched her inexpressibly. To every one s	one else was bound to be happy too. But Cassandra had her uncle s commands and anger too vividly in her mind to dare any such defiance. She became agitated and said that she must leave the house at once. She was not in a condition to go, had they known where to send her. Katharine s common sense, which had been in abeyance for the past week or two, still failed her, and she could only ask, "But where s your luggage?" in the vague belief that to take lodgings depended entirely upon a sufficiency of luggage. Cassandra s reply, "I ve lost my luggage," in no way helped her to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!" she observed, in a general way. "William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing	Night And Day
he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:	No speaker	me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to,	"Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and	their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her	Church of England. The rector s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one s eye. Ah	that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--" "Henry, why do people who have enough money try to get more money?" Her idea of politics--" "I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars," Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of England. The rector s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one s eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadiness included all praise. He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his son s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a moustache. But there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too,	the church may have been a ship, high-prowed, steering with all its company towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth hard and sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning after a night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they chrysants; it s a pity I didn t take them all." Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face, breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would lay down the morsel untasted. He remembered his wife s even goodness during thirty years. Not anything in detail--not courtship or early raptures--but just the unvarying virtue, that seemed to him a woman s noblest quality. So many women are capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not so his wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and mother, she had been the same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence! The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--" "Henry, why do people who have enough money try to get more money?" Her idea of politics--" "I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars," Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of England. The rector s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one s eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadiness included all praise. He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his son s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a moustache. But there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, was like Charles s. High and straight, brown and polished, merging abruptly into temples and skull, it had the effect of a bastion that protected his head from the world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall. He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years. "The post s come, father," said Evie awkwardly. "Thanks. Put it down." "Has the breakfast been all right?" "Yes, thanks." The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She did not know what to do. "Charles says do you want the Times?" "No, I ll read it later." "Ring if you want anything, father, won t you?" "I ve all I want." Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the dining-room. "Father s eaten nothing," she announced, sitting down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn. Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said "Look here father, you must eat, you know;" and having paused for a reply that did not come, stole down again. "He s going to read his letters first, I think," he said evasively; "I dare say he will go on	was rolling the event luxuriously in his mouth. He tried to tell his mother down below all that he had felt when he saw the coffin approaching: how he could not leave his work, and yet did not like to go on with it; how he had almost slipped out of the tree, he was so upset; the rooks had cawed, and no wonder--it was as if rooks knew too. His mother claimed the prophetic power herself--she had seen a strange look about Mrs. Wilcox for some time. London had done the mischief, said others. She had been a kind lady; her grandmother had been kind, too--a plainer person, but very kind. Ah, the old sort was dying out! Mr. Wilcox, he was a kind gentleman. They advanced to the topic again and again, dully, but with exaltation. The funeral of a rich person was to them what the funeral of Alcestis or Ophelia is to the educated. It was Art; though remote from life, it enhanced life s values, and they witnessed it avidly. The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent of disapproval--they disliked Charles; it was not a moment to speak of such things, but they did not like Charles Wilcox--the grave-diggers finished their work and piled up the wreaths and crosses above it. The sun set over Hilton; the grey brows of the evening flushed a little, and were cleft with one scarlet frown. Chattering sadly to each other, the mourners passed through the lych-gate and traversed the chestnut avenues that led down to the village. The young wood-cutter stayed a little longer, poised above the silence and swaying rhythmically. At last the bough fell beneath his saw. With a grunt, he descended, his thoughts dwelling no longer on death, but on love, for he was mating. He stopped as he passed the new grave; a sheaf of tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye. "They didn t ought to have coloured flowers at buryings," he reflected. Trudging on a few steps, he stopped again, looked furtively at the dusk, turned back, wrenched a chrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it in his pocket. After him came silence absolute. The cottage that abutted on the churchyard was empty, and no other house stood near. Hour after hour the scene of the interment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds drifted over it from the west; or the church may have been a ship, high-prowed, steering with all its company towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth hard and sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning after a night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they chrysants; it s a pity I didn t take them all." Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face, breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would lay down the morsel untasted. He remembered his wife s even goodness during thirty years. Not anything in detail--not courtship or early raptures--but just the unvarying virtue, that seemed to him a woman s noblest quality. So many women are capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not so his wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and mother, she had been the same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence! The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--" "Henry, why do people who have enough money try to get more money?" Her idea of politics--" "I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars," Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of England. The rector s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one s eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadiness included all praise. He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his son s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a moustache. But there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, was like Charles s. High and straight, brown and polished, merging abruptly into temples and skull, it had the effect of a bastion that protected his head from the world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall. He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years. "The post s come, father," said Evie awkwardly. "Thanks. Put it down." "Has the breakfast been all right?" "Yes, thanks." The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She did not know what to do. "Charles says do you want the Times?" "No, I ll read it later." "Ring if you want anything, father, won t you?" "I ve all I want." Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the dining-room. "Father s eaten nothing," she announced, sitting down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn. Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said "Look here father, you must eat, you know;" and having paused for a reply that did not come, stole down again. "He s going to read his letters first, I think," he said evasively; "I dare say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards." Then he took up the Times, and for some time there was no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and of knife on plate. Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions terrified at the course of events, and a little bored. She was a rubbishy little creature, and she knew it. A telegram had dragged her from Naples to the death-bed of a woman whom she had scarcely known. A word from her husband had plunged her into mourning. She desired to mourn inwardly as well, but she wished that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, could have died before the marriage, for then less would have been expected of her. Crumbling her toast, and too nervous to ask for the butter, she remained almost motionless, thankful only for this, that her father-in-law was having his breakfast upstairs. At last Charles spoke. "They had no business to be pollarding those elms yesterday," he said to his sister. "No, indeed." "I must make a note of that," he continued. "I am surprised that the rector allowed it." "Perhaps it may not be the rector s affair." "Whose else could it be?" "The lord of the manor." "Impossible." "Butter, Dolly?" "Thank you, Evie dear. Charles--" "Yes, dear?" "I didn t know one could pollard elms. I thought one only pollarded willows." "Oh no, one can pollard elms." "Then why oughtn t the elms in the churchyard to be pollarded?" Charles frowned a little, and turned again to his sister. "Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley." "Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley." "It s no good his saying he is not responsible for those men. He is responsible." "Yes, rather." Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus, partly because they desired to keep Chalkeley up to the mark--a healthy desire in its way--partly because they avoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes did. It did not seem to them of supreme importance. Or it may be as Helen supposed: they realised its importance, but were afraid of it. Panic and emptiness, could one glance behind. They were not callous, and they left the breakfast-table with aching hearts. Their mother never had come in to breakfast. It was in the other rooms, and especially in the garden, that they felt her loss most. As Charles went out to the garage, he was	grave; a sheaf of tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye. "They didn t ought to have coloured flowers at buryings," he reflected. Trudging on a few steps, he stopped again, looked furtively at the dusk, turned back, wrenched a chrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it in his pocket. After him came silence absolute. The cottage that abutted on the churchyard was empty, and no other house stood near. Hour after hour the scene of the interment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds drifted over it from the west; or the church may have been a ship, high-prowed, steering with all its company towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth hard and sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning after a night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they chrysants; it s a pity I didn t take them all." Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face, breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would lay down the morsel untasted. He remembered his wife s even goodness during thirty years. Not anything in detail--not courtship or early raptures--but just the unvarying virtue, that seemed to him a woman s noblest quality. So many women are capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not so his wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and mother, she had been the same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence! The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--" "Henry, why do people who have enough money try to get more money?" Her idea of politics--" "I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars," Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of England. The rector s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one s eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadiness included all praise. He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his son s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a moustache. But there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, was like Charles s. High and straight, brown and polished, merging abruptly into temples and skull, it had the effect of a bastion that protected his head from the world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall. He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years. "The post s come, father," said Evie awkwardly. "Thanks. Put it down." "Has the breakfast been all right?" "Yes, thanks." The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She did not know what to do. "Charles says do you want the Times?" "No, I ll read it later." "Ring if you want anything, father, won t you?" "I ve all I want." Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the dining-room. "Father s eaten nothing," she announced, sitting down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn. Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said "Look here father, you must eat, you know;" and having paused for a reply that did not come, stole down again. "He s going to read his letters first, I think," he said evasively; "I dare say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards." Then he took up the Times, and for some time there was no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and of knife on plate. Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions terrified at the course of events, and a little bored. She was a rubbishy little creature, and she knew it. A telegram had dragged her from Naples to the death-bed of a woman whom she had scarcely known. A word from her husband had plunged her into mourning. She desired to mourn inwardly as well, but she wished that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, could have died before the marriage, for then less would	Howards End
"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"	Jem Wimble	to it. "No," he said;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"Time? There was no time	did not seem to take to it. "No," he said;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we	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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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	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. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," 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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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."	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. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," 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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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	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. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," 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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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,	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. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," 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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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 like a pall over the vessel, and Don's spirits rose as he felt how well they were concealed. Then they sank once more, for Jem placed his lips close to his ear and whispered,-- "It's too dark, my lad; we shall never be able to see the canoe if she comes." Just then Don pressed his arm, and they listened together to what sounded like a faint sawing noise, which stopped and was renewed several times, and was followed by a slight splash. The	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. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," 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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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	Don Lavington
she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.	No speaker	wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet	"It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,"	lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were	He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with	mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious and toothsome bits the finest of fruits, _pat s_, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The _pat s_ and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better. IV	in the top of a water-oak, and the everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night. The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve of her _peignoir_ no longer served to dry them. She was holding the back of her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why she was crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed never before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband's kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and self-understood. An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious and toothsome bits the finest of fruits, _pat s_, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The _pat s_ and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better. IV It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or any one else's wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and ample atonement. If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort; he would more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair; since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and brushed. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when	forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys. Notwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining room where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that they were resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from satisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One of them began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs. Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had a high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar and went and sat near the open door to smoke it. Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to bed perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr. Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken. He assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room. He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the children. If it was not a mother's place to look after children, whose on earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage business. He could not be in two places at once; making a living for his family on the street, and staying at home to see that no harm befell them. He talked in a monotonous, insistent way. Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the pillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in half a minute he was fast asleep. Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her _peignoir_. Blowing out the candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of satin _mules_ at the foot of the bed and went out on the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock gently to and fro. It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint light gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no sound abroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak, and the everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night. The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve of her _peignoir_ no longer served to dry them. She was holding the back of her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why she was crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed never before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband's kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and self-understood. An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious and toothsome bits the finest of fruits, _pat s_, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The _pat s_ and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better. IV It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or any one else's wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and ample atonement. If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort; he would more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair; since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and brushed. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as ministering angels. Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment of every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her, he was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Ad le Ratignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that have served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the fair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her charms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold hair that comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that were like nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one could only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in looking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem to detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One would not have wanted her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful arms more slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it was a joy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her gold thimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed away on the little night-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib. Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took her sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She was sitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans. She had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawers. She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut out a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby's body so effectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, like an Eskimo's. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous drafts came down chimneys and insidious currents of deadly cold found their way through key-holes. Mrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at rest concerning the present material needs of her children, and she could not see the use of	whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious and toothsome bits the finest of fruits, _pat s_, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The _pat s_ and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better. IV It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or any one else's wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and ample atonement. If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort; he would more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair; since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and brushed. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized their	The Awakening
"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"	Mr. Sherlock Holmes	child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much	belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at	me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each	hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious	an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here, and come up." We tied Toby to the hall table, and re-ascended the stairs. The room was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner. "Lend me your bull s-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry smell. "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If _you_ can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin." By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I made my way round	see dimly that there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as our voices disturbed their slumbers. Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown-and-white in colour, with a very clumsy waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the detective s name. Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe. "Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Atheney Jones has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here, and come up." We tied Toby to the hall table, and re-ascended the stairs. The room was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner. "Lend me your bull s-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry smell. "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If _you_ can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin." By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves. "That you, Watson?" he cried. "Yes." "This is the place. What is that black thing down there?" "A water-barrel." "Top on it?" "Yes." "No sign of a ladder?" "No." "Confound the fellow! It s a most break-neck place. I ought to be able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow." There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth. "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it." The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out of coloured grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other,	was indeed a labyrinth in which a man less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair of ever finding the clue. Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3 before I could make my impression. At last, however, there was the glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper window. "Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face. "If you kick up any more row I ll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon you." "If you ll let one out it s just what I have come for," said I. "Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in the bag, an I ll drop it on your ead if you don t hook it." "But I want a dog," I cried. "I won t be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear, for when I say three, down goes the wiper." "Mr. Sherlock Holmes" I began, but the words had a most magical effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses. "A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he. "Step in, sir. Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty, would you take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don t mind that, sir: it s only a slow-worm. It hain t got no fangs, so I gives it the run o the room, for it keeps the beetles down. You must not mind my bein just a little short wi you at first, for I m guyed at by the children, and there s many a one just comes down this lane to knock me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?" "He wanted a dog of yours." "Ah! that would be Toby." "Yes, Toby was the name." "Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here." He moved slowly forward with his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as our voices disturbed their slumbers. Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown-and-white in colour, with a very clumsy waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the detective s name. Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe. "Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Atheney Jones has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here, and come up." We tied Toby to the hall table, and re-ascended the stairs. The room was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner. "Lend me your bull s-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry smell. "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If _you_ can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin." By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves. "That you, Watson?" he cried. "Yes." "This is the place. What is that black thing down there?" "A water-barrel." "Top on it?" "Yes." "No sign of a ladder?" "No." "Confound the fellow! It s a most break-neck place. I ought to be able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow." There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth. "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it." The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out of coloured grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto. "They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don t prick yourself. I m delighted to have them, for the chances are that they are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?" "Certainly," I answered. "Your leg will stand it?" "Oh, yes." "Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog s nose, while the creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the _bouquet_ of a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened a stout cord to the mongrel s collar, and led him to the foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed. The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some distance in the cold grey light. The square, massive house, with its black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and forlorn, behind us. Our course led right across the grounds, in and out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected. The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the black tragedy which hung over it. On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly, underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder. Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over upon the other side. "There s the print of wooden-leg s hand," he remarked, as I mounted up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain	half spaniel and half lurcher, brown-and-white in colour, with a very clumsy waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the detective s name. Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe. "Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Atheney Jones has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here, and come up." We tied Toby to the hall table, and re-ascended the stairs. The room was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner. "Lend me your bull s-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry smell. "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If _you_ can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin." By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves. "That you, Watson?" he cried. "Yes." "This is the place. What is that black thing down there?" "A water-barrel." "Top on it?" "Yes." "No sign of a ladder?" "No." "Confound the fellow! It s a most break-neck place. I ought to be able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow." There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth. "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it." The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out of coloured grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto. "They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don t prick yourself. I m delighted to have them, for the chances are that they are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?" "Certainly,"	The Sign Of The Four
"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."	Mr. John Knightley	these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent	strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body	did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law,	him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say	at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid." Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight." Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any	infection, than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was no concealing it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, "Would not she give him her support?--would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she give him her influence in procuring it?" "So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid." Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight." Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house. "What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?" was Mr. Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them, revived him a little. His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous people, but in a	all." "My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will be." Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless he comes." "He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs. Weston, "and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us." CHAPTER XV Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and, with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them. Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles. He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend--her fair, lovely, amiable friend. "Did she know?--had she heard any thing about her, since their being at Randalls?--he felt much anxiety--he must confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably." And in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him. But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on Harriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection, than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was no concealing it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, "Would not she give him her support?--would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she give him her influence in procuring it?" "So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid." Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight." Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house. "What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?" was Mr. Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them, revived him a little. His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through all the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them. "You had better order the carriage directly, my love," said she; "I dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold." "Indeed!" replied he. "Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing does give you cold. Walk home!--you are prettily shod for walking home, I dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses." Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs. Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away; and they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room immediately after his brother's first report of the snow, came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep--some way along the Highbury road--the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep--in many places hardly enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend. To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who was immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at Randalls. He	himself between them. Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles. He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend--her fair, lovely, amiable friend. "Did she know?--had she heard any thing about her, since their being at Randalls?--he felt much anxiety--he must confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably." And in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him. But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on Harriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection, than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was no concealing it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, "Would not she give him her support?--would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she give him her influence in procuring it?" "So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid." Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight." Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might	Emma
continued Anne, presently,	No speaker	Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth	little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim	which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly	by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did."	and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did." "Not before he was married, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not married when I knew him first." "And--were you much acquainted?" "Intimately." "Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he appears now?" "I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were	Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--" She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did." "Not before he was married, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not married when I knew him first." "And--were you much acquainted?" "Intimately." "Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he appears now?" "I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last-- "I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried, in her natural tone of cordiality, "I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real character. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that	were at! I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment occurs. Till it does come, you know, we women never mean to have anybody. It is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused, till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead for my--present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr Elliot. I am sure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can know him better than Colonel Wallis?" "My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half a year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one." "Oh! if these are your only objections," cried Mrs Smith, archly, "Mr Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do not forget me when you are married, that's all. Let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy. Mr Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin." "No," said Anne, "I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--" She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did." "Not before he was married, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not married when I knew him first." "And--were you much acquainted?" "Intimately." "Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he appears now?" "I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last-- "I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried, in her natural tone of cordiality, "I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real character. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!" Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and in a calmer manner, she added, "My expressions startle you. You must allow for an injured, angry woman. But I will try to command myself. I will not abuse him. I will only tell you what I have found him. Facts shall speak. He was the intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him as good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before our marriage. I found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became excessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but Mr Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more agreeable than most others, and we were almost always together. We were principally in town, living in very good style. He was then the inferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he had chambers in the Temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance of a gentleman. He had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he was always welcome; he was like a brother. My poor Charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his last farthing with him; and I know that his purse was open to him; I know that he often assisted him." "This must have been about that very period of Mr Elliot's life," said Anne, "which has always excited my particular curiosity. It must have been about the same time that he became known to my father and sister. I never knew him myself; I only heard of him; but there was a something in his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and afterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could quite reconcile with present times. It seemed to announce a different sort of man." "I know it all, I know it all," cried Mrs	within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--" She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did." "Not before he was married, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not married when I knew him first." "And--were you much acquainted?" "Intimately." "Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he appears now?" "I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last-- "I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried, in her natural tone of cordiality, "I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real character. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!" Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and in a calmer manner, she added, "My expressions startle you. You must allow for an injured, angry woman. But I will try to command myself. I will not abuse him. I will only tell you what I have found him. Facts shall speak. He was the intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him as good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before our marriage. I found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became excessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but Mr Elliot appeared	Persuasion
"You may well be surprised,"	Lucy Steele	hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be	in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had	had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been	delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in	sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present but the time _may_ come how soon it will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness	justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent." Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, "I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you;_ indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble _you_. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." "I am sorry I do _not_," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." "I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present but the time _may_ come how soon it will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "We have been engaged these four years." "Four years!" "Yes." Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle s care, you know, a considerable while." "Your uncle!" "Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" "I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as	encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments. Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every show of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless. "You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage "but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law s mother, Mrs. Ferrars?" Elinor _did_ think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars. "Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?" "No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward s mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity; "I know nothing of her." "I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent." Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, "I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you;_ indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble _you_. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." "I am sorry I do _not_," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." "I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present but the time _may_ come how soon it will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "We have been engaged these four years." "Four years!" "Yes." Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle s care, you know, a considerable while." "Your uncle!" "Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" "I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." "Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment s reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward s honour and love, and her companion s falsehood "Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars! I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars." "We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." "It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I should never have heard him even mention your name." "No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister s suspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning it." She was silent. Elinor s security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three years." She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its	of giving her real opinion of Edward s mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity; "I know nothing of her." "I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent." Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, "I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you;_ indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble _you_. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." "I am sorry I do _not_," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." "I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present but the time _may_ come how soon it will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "We have been engaged these four years." "Four years!" "Yes." Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle s care, you know, a considerable while." "Your uncle!" "Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" "I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you	Sense And Sensibility
said Jem,	No speaker	is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right	tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make	and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched	get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I	made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount of the food found in the various huts was served round. "Better than nothing, Mas' Don," said Jem, attacking his portion with the same avidity as was displayed by his fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they	bit ago, you'd got your head in my lap, and you was smiling just as if you was enjoying your bit of rest." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. TOMATI ESCAPES. "Have they been rowing--I mean paddling--all night, Jem?" said Don, as he looked back and saw the long line of canoes following the one he was in. "S'pose so, my lad. Seems to me they can go to sleep and keep on, just as old Rumble's mare used to doze away in the carrier's cart, all but her legs, which used to keep on going. Them chaps, p'r'aps, goes to sleep all but their arms." A terrible gnawing sensation was troubling Don now, as he looked eagerly about to see that they were going swiftly along the coast line; for their captors had roused themselves with the coming of day, and sent the canoes forward at a rapid rate for about an hour, until they ran their long narrow vessels in upon the beach and landed, making their prisoners do the same, close by the mouth of a swift rocky stream, whose bright waters came tumbling down over a series of cascades. Here it seemed as if a halt was to be made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount of the food found in the various huts was served round. "Better than nothing, Mas' Don," said Jem, attacking his portion with the same avidity as was displayed by his fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you," said Tomati, shivering painfully. "Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow's ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order. "Down, Mas' Don! Lie still!" whispered Jem. "They're ordering 'em into the boat again. Think we could crawl into the bush from	the canoe in the broad moonlight, and Don watched the soft silver sea, the black velvet-looking shore, and the brilliant stars; and then, just as in his faintness, hunger, and misery, he had determined in his own mind that he would be obliged to sit there and suffer the long night through, and began wondering how long it would be before morning, he became aware of the fact that Nature is bounteously good to those who suffer, for he saw that Jem kept on nodding his head, as if in acquiescence with that which he had said; and then he seemed to subside slowly with his brow against the side. "He's asleep!" said Don to himself. "Poor Jem! He always could go to sleep directly." This turned Don's thoughts to the times when, after a hard morning's work, and a hasty dinner, he had seen Jem sit down in a corner with his back against a tub, and drop off apparently in an instant. "I wish I could go to sleep and forget all this," Don said to himself with a sigh-- "all this horror and weariness and misery." He shook his head: it was impossible; and he looked again at the dark shore that they were passing, at the shimmering sea, and then at the bronzed backs of the warriors as they paddled on in their drowsy, mechanical way. The movement looked more and more strange as he gazed. The men's bodies swayed very little, and their arms all along the line looked misty, and seemed to stretch right away into infinity, so far away was the last rower from the prow. The water flashed with the moonlight on one side, and gleamed pallidly on the other as the blades stirred it; and then they grew more misty and more misty, but kept on _plash_--_plash_--_plash_, and the paddles of the line of canoes behind echoed the sound, or seemed to, as they beat the water, and Jem whispered softly in his ear,-- "Don't move, Mas' Don, my lad, I'm not tired!" But he did move, for he started up from where his head had been lying on Jem's knees, and the poor fellow smiled at him in the broad morning sunshine. Sunshine, and not moonshine; and Don stared. "Why, Jem," he said, "have I been asleep?" "S'pose so, Mas' Don. I know I have, and when I woke a bit ago, you'd got your head in my lap, and you was smiling just as if you was enjoying your bit of rest." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. TOMATI ESCAPES. "Have they been rowing--I mean paddling--all night, Jem?" said Don, as he looked back and saw the long line of canoes following the one he was in. "S'pose so, my lad. Seems to me they can go to sleep and keep on, just as old Rumble's mare used to doze away in the carrier's cart, all but her legs, which used to keep on going. Them chaps, p'r'aps, goes to sleep all but their arms." A terrible gnawing sensation was troubling Don now, as he looked eagerly about to see that they were going swiftly along the coast line; for their captors had roused themselves with the coming of day, and sent the canoes forward at a rapid rate for about an hour, until they ran their long narrow vessels in upon the beach and landed, making their prisoners do the same, close by the mouth of a swift rocky stream, whose bright waters came tumbling down over a series of cascades. Here it seemed as if a halt was to be made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount of the food found in the various huts was served round. "Better than nothing, Mas' Don," said Jem, attacking his portion with the same avidity as was displayed by his fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you," said Tomati, shivering painfully. "Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow's ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order. "Down, Mas' Don! Lie still!" whispered Jem. "They're ordering 'em into the boat again. Think we could crawl into the bush from here?" "No, Jem; it would be impossible." "So it would, lad, so it would; but as he said, poor chap, we must take to the woods. Think any of these would come with us?" Don shook his head despairingly, as he longed to look in Tomati's face again, but he dared not stir. A few minutes later they were once more in the leading canoe, which was being urged rapidly over the smooth sea, and it was a long time before Don could frame the words he wished to say. For whenever he tried to speak there was a strange choking sensation in his throat, and he ended by asking the question mutely as he gazed wildly in his companion's face. "Tomati, Mas' Don?" said Jem sadly. Don nodded. "Ah, I thought that was what you meant, my lad. Didn't you understand him when he spoke?" "No--yes--I'm afraid I did," whispered back Don. "Yes, you did, my lad. He meant it, and he knew it. He has got away." Don gazed wildly in Jem's eyes, and then bent his head low down to hide the emotion he felt, for it was nothing to him then that the English chief was an escaped convict from Norfolk Island. He had been a true friend and defender to them both; and Don in his misery, pain, and starvation could only ask himself whether that was the way that he must escape--the only open road. It was quite an hour before he spoke again, and then hardly above his breath. "Jem," he said, "shall we ever see our dear old home again?" Jem looked at him wistfully, and tried to answer cheerily, but the paddles were flashing in the sun, and the canoe was bearing them farther and farther away to a life of slavery, perhaps to a death of such horror that he dared not even think of it, much less speak. CHAPTER FORTY THREE. A SEARCH IN THE DARK. Two days' more water journey within easy reach of the verdant shore, past inlet, gulf, bay, and island, round jagged points, about which the waves beat and foamed; and then, amidst shouting, singing, and endless barbaric triumphal clamour, the captured canoes with their loads of prisoners and spoil were run up to a black beach, where a crowd of warriors with their women and children and those of the little conquering army eagerly	lap, and you was smiling just as if you was enjoying your bit of rest." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. TOMATI ESCAPES. "Have they been rowing--I mean paddling--all night, Jem?" said Don, as he looked back and saw the long line of canoes following the one he was in. "S'pose so, my lad. Seems to me they can go to sleep and keep on, just as old Rumble's mare used to doze away in the carrier's cart, all but her legs, which used to keep on going. Them chaps, p'r'aps, goes to sleep all but their arms." A terrible gnawing sensation was troubling Don now, as he looked eagerly about to see that they were going swiftly along the coast line; for their captors had roused themselves with the coming of day, and sent the canoes forward at a rapid rate for about an hour, until they ran their long narrow vessels in upon the beach and landed, making their prisoners do the same, close by the mouth of a swift rocky stream, whose bright waters came tumbling down over a series of cascades. Here it seemed as if a halt was to be made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount of the food found in the various huts was served round. "Better than nothing, Mas' Don," said Jem, attacking his portion with the same avidity as was displayed by his fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you," said Tomati, shivering painfully. "Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as	Don Lavington
She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.	No speaker	mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour	suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you	two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone	of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit	got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit for personal relationships. Well, let's go, let's go. Of course Mr. Fielding's letter doesn't count; he can think and write what he likes, only he shouldn't have been rude to you when you had so much to bear. That's what matters. . . . I don't want your arm, I'm a magnificent walker, so don't touch me, please." Mrs. McBryde wished her an affectionate good-bye a woman with whom she had nothing in common and whose intimacy oppressed her. They would have to meet now, year after year, until one of their husbands was superannuated. Truly Anglo-India had caught her	have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls. "I do this less every day, I shall soon be quite well," she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. "What I need is something to do. That is why I keep on with this ridiculous crying." "It's not ridiculous, we think you wonderful," said the policeman very sincerely. "It only bothers us that we can't help you more. Your stopping here at such a time is the greatest honour this house" He too was overcome with emotion. "By the way, a letter came here for you while you were ill," he continued. "I opened it, which is a strange confession to make. Will you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is from Fielding." "Why should he write to me?" "A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit for personal relationships. Well, let's go, let's go. Of course Mr. Fielding's letter doesn't count; he can think and write what he likes, only he shouldn't have been rude to you when you had so much to bear. That's what matters. . . . I don't want your arm, I'm a magnificent walker, so don't touch me, please." Mrs. McBryde wished her an affectionate good-bye a woman with whom she had nothing in common and whose intimacy oppressed her. They would have to meet now, year after year, until one of their husbands was superannuated. Truly Anglo-India had caught her with a vengeance, and perhaps it served her right for having tried to take up a line of her own. Humbled yet repelled, she gave thanks. "Oh, we must help one another, we must take the rough with the smooth," said Mrs. McBryde. Miss Derek was there too, still making jokes about her comic Maharajah and Rani. Required as a witness at the trial, she had refused to send back the Mudkul car; they would be frightfully sick. Both Mrs. McBryde and Miss Derek kissed her, and called her by her Christian name. Then Ronny drove her back. It was early in the morning, for the day, as the hot weather advanced, swelled like a monster at both ends, and left less and less room for the movements of mortals. As they neared his bungalow, he said: "Mother's looking forward to seeing you, but of course she's old, one mustn't forget that. Old people never take things as one expects, in my opinion." He seemed warning her against approaching disappointment, but she took no notice. Her friendship with Mrs. Moore was so deep and real that she felt sure it would last, whatever else happened. "What can I do to	the lives of others. . . . And Adela spent days in this atmosphere of grief and depression. Her friends kept up their spirits by demanding holocausts of natives, but she was too worried and weak to do that. When the cactus thorns had all been extracted, and her temperature fallen to normal, Ronny came to fetch her away. He was worn with indignation and suffering, and she wished she could comfort him; but intimacy seemed to caricature itself, and the more they spoke the more wretched and self-conscious they became. Practical talk was the least painful, and he and McBryde now told her one or two things which they had concealed from her during the crisis, by the doctor's orders. She learnt for the first time of the Mohurram troubles. There had nearly been a riot. The last day of the festival, the great procession left its official route, and tried to enter the civil station, and a telephone had been cut because it interrupted the advance of one of the larger paper towers. McBryde and his police had pulled the thing straight a fine piece of work. They passed on to another and very painful subject: the trial. She would have to appear in court, identify the prisoner, and submit to cross-examination by an Indian lawyer. "Can Mrs. Moore be with me?" was all she said. "Certainly, and I shall be there myself," Ronny replied. "The case won't come before me; they've objected to me on personal grounds. It will be at Chandrapore we thought at one time it would be transferred elsewhere." "Miss Quested realizes what all that means, though," said McBryde sadly. "The case will come before Das." Das was Ronny's assistant own brother to the Mrs. Bhattacharya whose carriage had played them false last month. He was courteous and intelligent, and with the evidence before him could only come to one conclusion; but that he should be judge over an English girl had convulsed the station with wrath, and some of the women had sent a telegram about it to Lady Mellanby, the wife of the Lieutenant-Governor. "I must come before someone." "That's that's the way to face it. You have the pluck, Miss Quested." He grew very bitter over the arrangements, and called them "the fruits of democracy." In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls. "I do this less every day, I shall soon be quite well," she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. "What I need is something to do. That is why I keep on with this ridiculous crying." "It's not ridiculous, we think you wonderful," said the policeman very sincerely. "It only bothers us that we can't help you more. Your stopping here at such a time is the greatest honour this house" He too was overcome with emotion. "By the way, a letter came here for you while you were ill," he continued. "I opened it, which is a strange confession to make. Will you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is from Fielding." "Why should he write to me?" "A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit for personal relationships. Well, let's go, let's go. Of course Mr. Fielding's letter doesn't count; he can think and write what he likes, only he shouldn't have been rude to you when you had so much to bear. That's what matters. . . . I don't want your arm, I'm a magnificent walker, so don't touch me, please." Mrs. McBryde wished her an affectionate good-bye a woman with whom she had nothing in common and whose intimacy oppressed her. They would have to meet now, year after year, until one of their husbands was superannuated. Truly Anglo-India had caught her with a vengeance, and perhaps it served her right for having tried to take up a line of her own. Humbled yet repelled, she gave thanks. "Oh, we must help one another, we must take the rough with the smooth," said Mrs. McBryde. Miss Derek was there too, still making jokes about her comic Maharajah and Rani. Required as a witness at the trial, she had refused to send back the Mudkul car; they would be frightfully sick. Both Mrs. McBryde and Miss Derek kissed her, and called her by her Christian name. Then Ronny drove her back. It was early in the morning, for the day, as the hot weather advanced, swelled like a monster at both ends, and left less and less room for the movements of mortals. As they neared his bungalow, he said: "Mother's looking forward to seeing you, but of course she's old, one mustn't forget that. Old people never take things as one expects, in my opinion." He seemed warning her against approaching disappointment, but she took no notice. Her friendship with Mrs. Moore was so deep and real that she felt sure it would last, whatever else happened. "What can I do to make things easier for you? it's you who matter," she sighed. "Dear old girl to say so." "Dear old boy." Then she cried: "Ronny, she isn't ill too?" He reassured her; Major Callendar was not dissatisfied. "But you'll find her irritable. We are an irritable family. Well, you'll see for yourself. No doubt my own nerves are out of order, and I expected more from mother when I came in from the office than she felt able to give. She is sure to make a special effort for you; still, I don't want your home-coming to be a disappointing one. Don't expect too much." The house came in sight. It was a replica of the bungalow she had left. Puffy, red, and curiously severe, Mrs. Moore was revealed upon a sofa. She didn't get up when they entered, and the surprise of this roused Adela from her own troubles. "Here you are both back," was the only greeting. Adela sat down and took her hand. It withdrew, and she felt that just as others repelled her, so did she repel Mrs. Moore. "Are you all right? You appeared all right when I left," said Ronny, trying not to speak crossly, but he had instructed her to give the girl a pleasant welcome, and he could not but feel annoyed. "I am all right," she said heavily. "As a matter of fact I have been looking at my return ticket. It is interchangeable, so I have a much larger choice of boats home than I thought." "We can go into that later, can't we?" "Ralph and Stella may be wanting to know when I arrive." "There is plenty of time for all such plans. How do you think our Adela looks?" "I am counting on you to help me through; it is such a blessing to be with you again, everyone else is a stranger," said the girl rapidly. But Mrs. Moore showed no inclination to be helpful. A sort of resentment emanated from her. She seemed to say: "Am I to be bothered for ever?" Her Christian tenderness had gone, or had developed into a hardness, a just irritation against the human race; she had taken no interest at the arrest, asked scarcely any questions, and had refused to leave her bed on the awful last night of Mohurram, when an attack was expected on the bungalow. "I know it's	a strange confession to make. Will you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is from Fielding." "Why should he write to me?" "A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit for personal relationships. Well, let's go, let's go. Of course Mr. Fielding's letter doesn't count; he can think and write what he likes, only he shouldn't have been rude to you when you had so much to bear. That's what matters. . . . I don't want your arm, I'm a magnificent walker, so don't touch me, please." Mrs. McBryde wished her an affectionate good-bye a woman with whom she had nothing in common and whose intimacy oppressed her. They would have to meet now, year after year, until one of their husbands was superannuated. Truly Anglo-India had caught her with a vengeance, and perhaps it served her right for having tried to take up a line of her own. Humbled yet repelled, she gave thanks. "Oh, we must help one another, we must take the rough with the smooth," said Mrs. McBryde. Miss Derek was there too, still making jokes about her comic Maharajah and Rani. Required as a witness at the trial, she had refused to send back the Mudkul car; they would be frightfully sick. Both Mrs. McBryde and Miss Derek kissed her, and called her by her Christian name. Then Ronny drove her back. It was early in the morning, for the day, as the hot weather advanced, swelled like a monster at both ends, and left less and less room for the movements of mortals. As they neared his bungalow, he said: "Mother's looking forward to seeing you, but of course she's old, one mustn't forget that. Old people never take things as one expects, in my opinion." He seemed warning her against approaching disappointment, but she took no notice. Her friendship with Mrs. Moore was so deep and real that she felt sure it would last, whatever else happened. "What can I do to make things easier for you? it's you who matter," she sighed. "Dear old girl to say so." "Dear old boy." Then she cried: "Ronny, she isn't ill too?" He reassured her; Major Callendar was not dissatisfied. "But you'll find her irritable. We are an irritable family. Well, you'll see for yourself. No doubt my own nerves	A Passage To India
"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."	Lord Fermor	Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling	"Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat;	the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son,	country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays	collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle	from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his father s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." "Kelso s grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if	you will come, too, Basil, won t you?" "I can t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do." "Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray." "I should like that awfully." The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I shall stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly. "Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling across to him. "Am I really like that?" "Yes; you are just like that." "How wonderful, Basil!" "At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," sighed Hallward. "That is something." "What a fuss people make about fidelity!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "Why, even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say." "Don t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and dine with me." "I can t, Basil." "Why?" "Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him." "He won t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go." Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head. "I entreat you." The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile. "I must go, Basil," he answered. "Very well," said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on the tray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow." "Certainly." "You won t forget?" "No, of course not," cried Dorian. "And ... Harry!" "Yes, Basil?" "Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning." "I have forgotten it." "I trust you." "I wish I could trust myself," said Lord Henry, laughing. "Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place. Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon." As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face. CHAPTER III. At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his father s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." "Kelso s grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap." "He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry. "I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man. "He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies." "I don t know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?" "Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn t a girl in London at the time who wasn t after him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain t English girls good enough for him?" "It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George." "I ll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor, striking	people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his father s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." "Kelso s grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him,	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."	Dr Messinger	waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking	to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none	that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had	to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her	two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig	two years with black gentleman, Mr Forbes. You like cigarettes--" "Yes, give me cigarettes." "You come with men in boats, I give you plenty, plenty cigarettes." Rosa looked stolidly ahead of her and said nothing. "Listen. You will have your man and seven others to protect you. How can we talk with men without you?" "Men no go," said Rosa. "Of course the men will go. The only question is, will you come too?" "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples," said Rosa. "Oh God," said Dr Messinger wearily. "All right, we'll talk about it in the morning." "You give me cigarette...." "It's going to be awkward if that woman doesn't come." "It's going to be much more awkward if none of them come," said Tony. * * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores," said Dr Messinger. "There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this," she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply. "Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them	The canoes would not hold all the stores and an "emergency dump" was made a little way up the bank. "We shall take eight men with us. Four can stay behind with the women to guard the camp. Once we are among the Pie-wies, everything will be easy. These Macushis can go home then. I don't think they will rob the stores. There is nothing here that would be much use to them." "Hadn't we better keep Rosa with us to act as interpreter with the Macushis?" "Yes, perhaps we had. I will tell her." That evening everything was finished except the paddles. In the first exhilarating hour of darkness, when Tony and Dr Messinger were able to discard the gloves and veils that had been irking them all day, they called Rosa across to the part of the camp where they ate and slept. "Rosa, we have decided to take you down the river with us. We need you to help us talk to the men. Understand?" Rosa said nothing; her face was perfectly blank, lit from below by the storm lantern that stood on a box between them; the shadow of her high cheekbones hid her eyes; lank, ragged hair, a tenuous straggle of tattooing along the forehead and lip, rotund body in its filthy cotton gown, bandy brown legs. "Understand?" But still she said nothing; she seemed to be looking over their heads into the dark forest, but her eyes were lost in shadow. "Listen, Rosa, all women and four men stay here in camp. Eight men come in boats to Pie-wie village. You come with boats. When we reach Pie-wie village, you and eight men and boats go back to camp to other women and men. Then back to Macushi country. Understand?" At last Rosa spoke. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "I am not asking you to go _with_ Pie-wie people. You and the men take us as far as Pie-wies, then you go back to Macushi people. Understand?" Rosa raised her arm in an embracing circle which covered the camp and the road they had travelled and the broad savannahs behind them. "Macushi peoples there," she said. Then she raised the other arm and waved it downstream towards the hidden country. "Pie-wie peoples there," she said. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "Now listen, Rosa. You are sensible, civilized woman. You lived two years with black gentleman, Mr Forbes. You like cigarettes--" "Yes, give me cigarettes." "You come with men in boats, I give you plenty, plenty cigarettes." Rosa looked stolidly ahead of her and said nothing. "Listen. You will have your man and seven others to protect you. How can we talk with men without you?" "Men no go," said Rosa. "Of course the men will go. The only question is, will you come too?" "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples," said Rosa. "Oh God," said Dr Messinger wearily. "All right, we'll talk about it in the morning." "You give me cigarette...." "It's going to be awkward if that woman doesn't come." "It's going to be much more awkward if none of them come," said Tony. * * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores," said Dr Messinger. "There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this," she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply. "Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the floor of the toy department. They were of German manufacture; the size of large rats, but conspicuously painted in spots of green and white; they had large glass eyes, stiff whiskers and green-and-white-ringed tails; they ran on hidden wheels, and inside them were little bells that jingled as they moved. Dr Messinger took one out of their box, unwrapped the tissue-paper and held it up to general scrutiny. There was no doubt that he had captured his audience's interest. Then he wound it up. The Indians stirred apprehensively at the sound. The ground where they were camping was hard mud, inundated at flood time. Dr Messinger put the toy down at his feet and set it going; tinkling merrily it ran towards the group of Indians. For a moment, Tony was afraid that it would turn over or become stuck against a root, but the mechanism was unimpaired and by good chance there was a clear course. The effect exceeded anything that he had expected. There was a loud intake of breath, a series of horrified, small grunts, a high wail of terror from the women, and a sudden stampede; a faint patter of bare brown feet among the fallen leaves, bare limbs, quiet as bats, pushed through the undergrowth, ragged cotton gowns caught and tore in the thorn bushes. Before the toy had run down, before it had jingled its way to the place where the nearest Indian had been squatting, the camp was empty. "Well, I'm damned," said Dr Messinger, "that's better than I expected." "More than you expected, anyway." "Oh, it's all right. They'll come back. I know them." But by sundown there was still no sign. Throughout the hot afternoon Tony and Dr Messinger, shrouded from cabouri fly, sprawled in their hammocks. The empty canoes lay in the river; the mechanical mouse had been put away. At sundown Dr Messinger said, "We'd better make a fire. They'll come back when it is dark." They brushed the earth away from the old embers, brought new wood and made a fire; they lit the storm lantern. "We'd better get	* Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores," said Dr Messinger. "There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this," she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply. "Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the floor of the toy department. They were of German manufacture; the size of large rats, but conspicuously painted in spots of green and white; they had large glass eyes, stiff whiskers and green-and-white-ringed tails; they ran on hidden wheels, and inside them were little bells that jingled as they moved. Dr Messinger took one out of their box, unwrapped the tissue-paper and held it up to general scrutiny. There was no doubt that he had captured his audience's interest. Then he wound it up. The Indians stirred apprehensively at the sound. The ground where they were camping was hard mud, inundated at flood time. Dr Messinger put the toy down at his feet and set it going; tinkling merrily it ran towards the group of Indians. For a moment, Tony was afraid that it would turn over or become stuck against a root, but the mechanism was unimpaired	A Handful Of Dust
"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."	Ellen Olenska	irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved	unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away.	a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?"	he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way	saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The	started to walk across the Common; and on the first bench, under a tree, he saw her sitting. She had a grey silk sunshade over her head--how could he ever have imagined her with a pink one? As he approached he was struck by her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. He saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took another plunge. "And the person?" "-- "The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..." "And you came out here to think the chance over?" "I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's too stifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back to Portsmouth." They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "You're not changed." He felt like answering:	waited for his toast and scrambled eggs. A new sense of energy and activity had possessed him ever since he had announced to May the night before that he had business in Boston, and should take the Fall River boat that night and go on to New York the following evening. It had always been understood that he would return to town early in the week, and when he got back from his expedition to Portsmouth a letter from the office, which fate had conspicuously placed on a corner of the hall table, sufficed to justify his sudden change of plan. He was even ashamed of the ease with which the whole thing had been done: it reminded him, for an uncomfortable moment, of Lawrence Lefferts's masterly contrivances for securing his freedom. But this did not long trouble him, for he was not in an analytic mood. After breakfast he smoked a cigarette and glanced over the Commercial Advertiser. While he was thus engaged two or three men he knew came in, and the usual greetings were exchanged: it was the same world after all, though he had such a queer sense of having slipped through the meshes of time and space. He looked at his watch, and finding that it was half-past nine got up and went into the writing-room. There he wrote a few lines, and ordered a messenger to take a cab to the Parker House and wait for the answer. He then sat down behind another newspaper and tried to calculate how long it would take a cab to get to the Parker House. "The lady was out, sir," he suddenly heard a waiter's voice at his elbow; and he stammered: "Out?--" as if it were a word in a strange language. He got up and went into the hall. It must be a mistake: she could not be out at that hour. He flushed with anger at his own stupidity: why had he not sent the note as soon as he arrived? He found his hat and stick and went forth into the street. The city had suddenly become as strange and vast and empty as if he were a traveller from distant lands. For a moment he stood on the door-step hesitating; then he decided to go to the Parker House. What if the messenger had been misinformed, and she were still there? He started to walk across the Common; and on the first bench, under a tree, he saw her sitting. She had a grey silk sunshade over her head--how could he ever have imagined her with a pink one? As he approached he was struck by her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. He saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took another plunge. "And the person?" "-- "The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..." "And you came out here to think the chance over?" "I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's too stifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back to Portsmouth." They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "You're not changed." He felt like answering: "I was, till I saw you again;" but instead he stood up abruptly and glanced about him at the untidy sweltering park. "This is horrible. Why shouldn't we go out a little on the bay? There's a breeze, and it will be cooler. We might take the steamboat down to Point Arley." She glanced up at him hesitatingly and he went on: "On a Monday morning there won't be anybody on the boat. My train doesn't leave till evening: I'm going back to New York. Why shouldn't we?" he insisted, looking down at her; and suddenly he broke out: "Haven't we done all we could?" "Oh" "--she murmured again. She stood up and reopened her sunshade, glancing about her as if to take counsel of the scene, and assure herself of the impossibility of remaining in it. Then her eyes returned to his face. "You mustn't say things like that to me," she said. "I'll say anything you like; or nothing. I won't open my mouth unless you tell me to. What harm can it do to anybody? All I want is to listen to you," he stammered. She drew out a little gold-faced watch on an enamelled chain. "Oh, don't calculate," he broke out; "give me the day! I want to get you away from that man. At what time was he coming?" Her colour rose again. "At eleven." "Then you must come at once." "You needn't be afraid--if I don't come." "Nor you either--if you do. I swear I only want to hear about you, to know what you've been doing. It's a hundred years since we've met--it may be another hundred before we meet again." She still wavered, her anxious eyes on his face. "Why didn't you come down to the beach to fetch me, the day I was at Granny's?" she asked. "Because you didn't look round--because you didn't know I was there. I swore I wouldn't unless you looked round." He laughed as the childishness of the confession struck him. "But I didn't look round on purpose." "On purpose?" "I knew you were there; when you drove in I recognised the ponies. So I went down to the beach." "To get away from me as far as you could?" She repeated in a low voice: "To get away from you as far as I could." He laughed out again, this time in boyish satisfaction. "Well,	knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took another plunge. "And the person?" "-- "The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..." "And you came out here to think the chance over?" "I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's too stifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back to Portsmouth." They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "You're not changed." He felt like answering: "I was, till I saw you again;" but instead he stood up abruptly and glanced about him at the untidy sweltering park. "This is horrible. Why shouldn't we go out a little on the bay? There's a breeze, and it will be cooler. We might take the steamboat down to Point Arley." She glanced up at him hesitatingly and he went on: "On a Monday morning there won't be anybody on the boat. My train doesn't leave till evening: I'm going back to New York. Why shouldn't we?" he insisted, looking down	The Age Of Innocence
said Pooh.	No speaker	"What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear	such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and	Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding	to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed."	AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said	skipping from time to time in front of the sun as if they had come to put it out, and then sliding away suddenly so that the next might have his turn. Through them and between them the sun shone bravely; and a copse which had worn its firs all the year round seemed old and dowdy now beside the new green lace which the beeches had put on so prettily. Through copse and spinney marched Bear; down open slopes of gorse and heather, over rocky beds of streams, up steep banks of sandstone into the heather again; and so at last, tired and hungry, to the Hundred Acre Wood. For it was in the Hundred Acre Wood that Owl lived. "And if anyone knows anything about anything," said Bear to himself, "it's Owl who knows something about something," he said, "or my name's not Winnie-the-Pooh," he said. "Which it is," he added. "So there you are." Owl lived at The Chestnuts, an old-world residence of great charm, which was grander than anybody else's, or seemed so to Bear, because it had both a knocker _and_ a bell-pull. Underneath the knocker there was a notice which said: PLES RING IF AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be." And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin. "It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he	Donkey, Eeyore, stood by himself in a thistly corner of the forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things. Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, "Why?" and sometimes he thought, "Wherefore?" and sometimes he thought, "Inasmuch as which?" "--and sometimes he didn't quite know what he _was_ thinking about. So when Winnie-the-Pooh came stumping along, Eeyore was very glad to be able to stop thinking for a little, in order to say "How do you do?" in a gloomy manner to him. "And how are you?" said Winnie-the-Pooh. Eeyore shook his head from side to side. "Not very how," he said. "I don't seem to have felt at all how for a long time." "Dear, dear," said Pooh, "I'm sorry about that. Let's have a look at you." So Eeyore stood there, gazing sadly at the ground, and Winnie-the-Pooh walked all round him once. "Why, what's happened to your tail?" he said in surprise. "What _has_ happened to it?" said Eeyore. "It isn't there!" "Are you sure?" "Well, either a tail _is_ there or it isn't there. You can't make a mistake about it. And yours _isn't_ there!" "Then what is?" "Nothing." "Let's have a look," said Eeyore, and he turned slowly round to the place where his tail had been a little while ago, and then, finding that he couldn't catch it up, he turned round the other way, until he came back to where he was at first, and then he put his head down and looked between his front legs, and at last he said, with a long, sad sigh, "I believe you're right." "Of course I'm right," said Pooh. "That Accounts for a Good Deal," said Eeyore gloomily. "It Explains Everything. No Wonder." "You must have left it somewhere," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Somebody must have taken it," said Eeyore. "How Like Them," he added, after a long silence. Pooh felt that he ought to say something helpful about it, but didn't quite know what. So he decided to do something helpful instead. "Eeyore," he said solemnly, "I, Winnie-the-Pooh, will find your tail for you." "Thank you, Pooh," answered Eeyore. "You're a real friend," said he. "Not like Some," he said. So Winnie-the-Pooh went off to find Eeyore's tail. It was a fine spring morning in the forest as he started out. Little soft clouds played happily in a blue sky, skipping from time to time in front of the sun as if they had come to put it out, and then sliding away suddenly so that the next might have his turn. Through them and between them the sun shone bravely; and a copse which had worn its firs all the year round seemed old and dowdy now beside the new green lace which the beeches had put on so prettily. Through copse and spinney marched Bear; down open slopes of gorse and heather, over rocky beds of streams, up steep banks of sandstone into the heather again; and so at last, tired and hungry, to the Hundred Acre Wood. For it was in the Hundred Acre Wood that Owl lived. "And if anyone knows anything about anything," said Bear to himself, "it's Owl who knows something about something," he said, "or my name's not Winnie-the-Pooh," he said. "Which it is," he added. "So there you are." Owl lived at The Chestnuts, an old-world residence of great charm, which was grander than anybody else's, or seemed so to Bear, because it had both a knocker _and_ a bell-pull. Underneath the knocker there was a notice which said: PLES RING IF AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be." And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin. "It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before. "Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl. Pooh nodded. "It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?" "Attached to it," said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of something to sustain him. And, 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	you, Pooh," answered Eeyore. "You're a real friend," said he. "Not like Some," he said. So Winnie-the-Pooh went off to find Eeyore's tail. It was a fine spring morning in the forest as he started out. Little soft clouds played happily in a blue sky, skipping from time to time in front of the sun as if they had come to put it out, and then sliding away suddenly so that the next might have his turn. Through them and between them the sun shone bravely; and a copse which had worn its firs all the year round seemed old and dowdy now beside the new green lace which the beeches had put on so prettily. Through copse and spinney marched Bear; down open slopes of gorse and heather, over rocky beds of streams, up steep banks of sandstone into the heather again; and so at last, tired and hungry, to the Hundred Acre Wood. For it was in the Hundred Acre Wood that Owl lived. "And if anyone knows anything about anything," said Bear to himself, "it's Owl who knows something about something," he said, "or my name's not Winnie-the-Pooh," he said. "Which it is," he added. "So there you are." Owl lived at The Chestnuts, an old-world residence of great charm, which was grander than anybody else's, or seemed so to Bear, because it had both a knocker _and_ a bell-pull. Underneath the knocker there was a notice which said: PLES RING IF AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be." And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin. "It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked	Winnie The Pooh
"It's quite all right... I just wondered."	Brenda	I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they	if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was	it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go.	would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread	the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her. "I'm sure you want to go away." "No, really." "I've got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied:	the osteopath's table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver would be at home that evening. "Probably not, if he's so keen on going about," she thought, "and, anyhow, what's the sense?..." But he was there, in spite of two other invitations. She heard all about the maisonette. Mrs Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long-felt need, Mrs Beaver said. "I'll ask my husband and let you know." "You _will_ let me know soon, won't you, because _everyone_ will be wanting one." "I'll let you know very soon." When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her. "I'm sure you want to go away." "No, really." "I've got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day," Tony remarked. "I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "Is she nice?" "Mummy thinks so. I don't." "Why?" "Because she looks like a monkey." "I should love to see her. Does she live in a cage? Has she got a tail? Ben saw a woman who looked like a fish, with scales all over instead of skin. It was in a circus in Cairo. Smelt like a fish too, Ben says." They were having tea together on the afternoon of Brenda's departure. "Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?" "Oh, nuts and things." "Nuts and what things?" "Different kinds of nuts." For days to come the image of this hairy, mischievous Countess occupied John Andrew's mind. She became one of the inhabitants of his world, like Peppermint, the mule who died of rum. When kindly people spoke to him in the village he would tell them about her and how she swung head down from	guests being chosen for no mutual bond--least of all affection for Mrs Beaver or for each other--except that their names were in current use--an accessible but not wholly renegade duke, an unmarried girl of experience, a dancer and a novelist and a scene designer, a shamefaced junior minister who had not realized what he was in for until too late, and Lady Cockpurse. "God, what a party," said Marjorie, waving brightly to them all. "You're both coming to my party, darlings?" Polly Cockpurse's strident tones rang across the restaurant. "Only don't tell anyone about it. It's just a very small, secret party. The house will only hold a few people--just old friends." "It would be wonderful to see what Polly's _real_ old friends were like," said Marjorie. "She hasn't known anyone more than five years." "I wish Tony could see her point." (Although Polly's fortune was derived from men, her popularity was chiefly among women, who admired her clothes and bought them from her second-hand at bargain prices; her first steps to eminence had been in circles so obscure that they had made her no enemies in the world to which she aspired; some time ago she had married a good-natured earl, whom nobody else happened to want at the time; since then she had scaled all but the highest peaks of every social mountain.) After luncheon Mrs Beaver came across to their table. "I _must_ come and speak to you, though I'm in a great hurry. It's _so_ long since we met and John has been telling me about a _delightful_ week-end he had with you." "It was very quiet." "That's just what he _loves_. Poor boy, he gets rushed off his feet in London. Tell me, Lady Brenda, is it true you are looking for a flat?--because I think I've got just the place for you. It's being done up now and will be ready well before Christmas." She looked at her watch. "Oh dear, I must fly. You couldn't possibly come in for a cocktail, this evening? Then you could hear all about it." "I _could_..." said Brenda doubtfully. "Then _do_. I'll expect you about six. I daresay you don't know where I live?" She told her and left the table. "What's all this about a flat?" Marjorie asked. "Oh, just something I thought of..." * * * * * That afternoon, as she lay luxuriously on the osteopath's table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver would be at home that evening. "Probably not, if he's so keen on going about," she thought, "and, anyhow, what's the sense?..." But he was there, in spite of two other invitations. She heard all about the maisonette. Mrs Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long-felt need, Mrs Beaver said. "I'll ask my husband and let you know." "You _will_ let me know soon, won't you, because _everyone_ will be wanting one." "I'll let you know very soon." When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her. "I'm sure you want to go away." "No, really." "I've got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day," Tony remarked. "I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "Is she nice?" "Mummy thinks so. I don't." "Why?" "Because she looks like a monkey." "I should love to see her. Does she live in a cage? Has she got a tail? Ben saw a woman who looked like a fish, with scales all over instead of skin. It was in a circus in Cairo. Smelt like a fish too, Ben says." They were having tea together on the afternoon of Brenda's departure. "Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?" "Oh, nuts and things." "Nuts and what things?" "Different kinds of nuts." For days to come the image of this hairy, mischievous Countess occupied John Andrew's mind. She became one of the inhabitants of his world, like Peppermint, the mule who died of rum. When kindly people spoke to him in the village he would tell them about her and how she swung head down from a tree throwing nutshells at passers-by. "You mustn't say things like that about real people," said nanny. "Whatever would Lady Cockpurse do if she heard about it?" "She'd gibber and chatter and lash round with her tail, and then I expect she'd catch some nice, big, juicy fleas and forget all about it." * * * * * Brenda was staying at Marjorie's for the night. She was dressed first and came into her sister's room. "Lovely, darling. New?" "Fairly." Marjorie was rung up by the woman at whose house she was dining. (" "Look here, are you absolutely sure you can't make Allan come to-night?" "Absolutely. He's got a meeting in Camberwell. He may not even come to Polly's." "Is there _any_ man you can bring?" "Can't think of anybody." "Well, we shall have to be one short, that's all. I can't think what's happened to-night. I rang up John Beaver but even _he_ won't come." ") "You know," said Marjorie, putting down the telephone, "you're causing a great deal of trouble. You've taken London's only spare man." "Oh dear, I didn't realize..." Beaver arrived at quarter to nine in a state of high self-approval; he had refused two invitations to dinner while dressing that evening; he had cashed a cheque for ten pounds at his club; he had booked a divan table at Espinosa's. It was almost the first time in his life that he had taken anyone out to dinner, but he knew perfectly well how it was done. "I must see your Mr Beaver properly," said Marjorie. "Let's make him take off his coat and drink something." The two sisters were a little shy as they came downstairs, but Beaver was perfectly at his ease. He looked very elegant and rather more than his age. "Oh, he's not so bad, your Mr Beaver," Marjorie's look seemed to say, "not by any means," and he, seeing the two women together, who were both beautiful, though in a manner so different that, although it was apparent that they were sisters, they might have belonged each to a separate race, began to understand what had perplexed him all the week; why, contrary to all habit and principle, he had telegraphed to Brenda asking her to dine. "Mrs Jimmy Deane's very upset that she couldn't get you for to-night. I didn't give away what you were doing." "Give her my	must fly. You couldn't possibly come in for a cocktail, this evening? Then you could hear all about it." "I _could_..." said Brenda doubtfully. "Then _do_. I'll expect you about six. I daresay you don't know where I live?" She told her and left the table. "What's all this about a flat?" Marjorie asked. "Oh, just something I thought of..." * * * * * That afternoon, as she lay luxuriously on the osteopath's table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver would be at home that evening. "Probably not, if he's so keen on going about," she thought, "and, anyhow, what's the sense?..." But he was there, in spite of two other invitations. She heard all about the maisonette. Mrs Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long-felt need, Mrs Beaver said. "I'll ask my husband and let you know." "You _will_ let me know soon, won't you, because _everyone_ will be wanting one." "I'll let you know very soon." When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her. "I'm sure you want to go away." "No, really." "I've got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day," Tony remarked. "I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "Is she nice?" "Mummy thinks so. I don't." "Why?" "Because she looks like a monkey." "I should love to see her. Does she live in a cage? Has she got a tail? Ben saw a woman who looked like a fish, with scales all over instead of skin. It was in a circus in Cairo. Smelt like a fish too, Ben says." They were having tea together on the afternoon of Brenda's departure. "Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?" "Oh, nuts and things." "Nuts and what things?" "Different kinds of nuts." For days to come the image of this hairy, mischievous Countess occupied John Andrew's mind. She became one of the inhabitants of his world, like Peppermint, the mule who died of rum. When kindly people spoke to him in the village he would tell them about her and how she swung head down from a tree throwing nutshells at passers-by. "You mustn't say things like that about real people," said nanny. "Whatever would Lady Cockpurse do if she heard about it?" "She'd gibber and chatter and lash round with her tail, and then I expect she'd catch some nice, big, juicy fleas and forget all about it." * * * * * Brenda was staying at Marjorie's for the night. She was dressed first and came into her sister's room. "Lovely, darling. New?" "Fairly." Marjorie was rung up by the woman at whose house she was	A Handful Of Dust
"It s all so _simple_."	Mrs. Seal	discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter	lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source	admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few	I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she	alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another. "To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without Reality?" Doing homage to the phrase, she repeated it once more, and caught the ear of Mr. Clacton, as he issued from his room; and he repeated it a third time, giving it, as he was in the habit of doing with Mrs. Seal s phrases, a dryly humorous intonation. He was well pleased with the world, however, and he remarked, in a flattering manner, that he would like to see that phrase in large letters at the head of a leaflet. "But, Mrs. Seal, we have to aim at a judicious combination of the	the conversation had taken, that she plunged her head into the cupboard, and endeavored to abstract some very obscure piece of china. "We have our work," she said, withdrawing her head, displaying cheeks more than usually crimson, and placing a jam-pot emphatically upon the table. But, for the moment, she was unable to launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime," said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another. "To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without Reality?" Doing homage to the phrase, she repeated it once more, and caught the ear of Mr. Clacton, as he issued from his room; and he repeated it a third time, giving it, as he was in the habit of doing with Mrs. Seal s phrases, a dryly humorous intonation. He was well pleased with the world, however, and he remarked, in a flattering manner, that he would like to see that phrase in large letters at the head of a leaflet. "But, Mrs. Seal, we have to aim at a judicious combination of the two," he added in his magisterial way to check the unbalanced enthusiasm of the women. "Reality has to be voiced by reason before it can make itself felt. The weak point of all these movements, Miss Datchet," he continued, taking his place at the table and turning to Mary as usual when about to deliver his more profound cogitations, "is that they are not based upon sufficiently intellectual grounds. A mistake, in my opinion. The British public likes a pellet of reason in its jam of eloquence a pill of reason in its pudding of sentiment," he said, sharpening the phrase to a satisfactory degree of literary precision. His eyes rested, with something of the vanity of an author, upon the yellow leaflet which Mary held in her hand. She rose, took her seat at the head of the table, poured out tea for her colleagues, and gave her opinion upon the leaflet. So she had poured out tea, so she had criticized Mr. Clacton s leaflets a hundred times already; but now it seemed to her that she was doing it in a different spirit; she had enlisted in the army, and was a volunteer no longer. She had	desires and sufferings of the mass of mankind. She had been too lately and too roughly mastered by facts to take an easy pleasure in the relief of renunciation; such satisfaction as she felt came only from the discovery that, having renounced everything that made life happy, easy, splendid, individual, there remained a hard reality, unimpaired by one s personal adventures, remote as the stars, unquenchable as they are. While Mary Datchet was undergoing this curious transformation from the particular to the universal, Mrs. Seal remembered her duties with regard to the kettle and the gas-fire. She was a little surprised to find that Mary had drawn her chair to the window, and, having lit the gas, she raised herself from a stooping posture and looked at her. The most obvious reason for such an attitude in a secretary was some kind of indisposition. But Mary, rousing herself with an effort, denied that she was indisposed. "I m frightfully lazy this afternoon," she added, with a glance at her table. "You must really get another secretary, Sally." The words were meant to be taken lightly, but something in the tone of them roused a jealous fear which was always dormant in Mrs. Seal s breast. She was terribly afraid that one of these days Mary, the young woman who typified so many rather sentimental and enthusiastic ideas, who had some sort of visionary existence in white with a sheaf of lilies in her hand, would announce, in a jaunty way, that she was about to be married. "You don t mean that you re going to leave us?" she said. "I ve not made up my mind about anything," said Mary a remark which could be taken as a generalization. Mrs. Seal got the teacups out of the cupboard and set them on the table. "You re not going to be married, are you?" she asked, pronouncing the words with nervous speed. "Why are you asking such absurd questions this afternoon, Sally?" Mary asked, not very steadily. "Must we all get married?" Mrs. Seal emitted a most peculiar chuckle. She seemed for one moment to acknowledge the terrible side of life which is concerned with the emotions, the private lives, of the sexes, and then to sheer off from it with all possible speed into the shades of her own shivering virginity. She was made so uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken, that she plunged her head into the cupboard, and endeavored to abstract some very obscure piece of china. "We have our work," she said, withdrawing her head, displaying cheeks more than usually crimson, and placing a jam-pot emphatically upon the table. But, for the moment, she was unable to launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime," said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another. "To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without Reality?" Doing homage to the phrase, she repeated it once more, and caught the ear of Mr. Clacton, as he issued from his room; and he repeated it a third time, giving it, as he was in the habit of doing with Mrs. Seal s phrases, a dryly humorous intonation. He was well pleased with the world, however, and he remarked, in a flattering manner, that he would like to see that phrase in large letters at the head of a leaflet. "But, Mrs. Seal, we have to aim at a judicious combination of the two," he added in his magisterial way to check the unbalanced enthusiasm of the women. "Reality has to be voiced by reason before it can make itself felt. The weak point of all these movements, Miss Datchet," he continued, taking his place at the table and turning to Mary as usual when about to deliver his more profound cogitations, "is that they are not based upon sufficiently intellectual grounds. A mistake, in my opinion. The British public likes a pellet of reason in its jam of eloquence a pill of reason in its pudding of sentiment," he said, sharpening the phrase to a satisfactory degree of literary precision. His eyes rested, with something of the vanity of an author, upon the yellow leaflet which Mary held in her hand. She rose, took her seat at the head of the table, poured out tea for her colleagues, and gave her opinion upon the leaflet. So she had poured out tea, so she had criticized Mr. Clacton s leaflets a hundred times already; but now it seemed to her that she was doing it in a different spirit; she had enlisted in the army, and was a volunteer no longer. She had renounced something and was now how could she express it? not quite "in the running" for life. She had always known that Mr. Clacton and Mrs. Seal were not in the running, and across the gulf that separated them she had seen them in the guise of shadow people, flitting in and out of the ranks of the living eccentrics, undeveloped human beings, from whose substance some essential part had been cut away. All this had never struck her so clearly as it did this afternoon, when she felt that her lot was cast with them for ever. One view of the world plunged in darkness, so a more volatile temperament might have argued after a season of despair, let the world turn again and show another, more splendid, perhaps. No, Mary thought, with unflinching loyalty to what appeared to her to be the true view, having lost what is best, I do not mean to pretend that any other view does instead. Whatever happens, I mean to have no presences in my life. Her very words had a sort of distinctness which is sometimes produced by sharp, bodily pain. To Mrs. Seal s secret jubilation the rule which forbade discussion of shop at tea-time was overlooked. Mary and Mr. Clacton argued with a cogency and a ferocity which made the little woman feel that something very important she hardly knew what was taking place. She became much excited; one crucifix became entangled with another, and she dug a considerable hole in the table with the point of her pencil in order to emphasize the most striking heads of the discourse; and how any combination of Cabinet Ministers could resist such discourse she really did not know. She could hardly bring herself to remember her own private instrument of justice the typewriter. The telephone-bell rang, and as she hurried off to answer a voice which always seemed a proof of importance by itself, she felt that it was at this exact spot on the surface of the globe that all the subterranean wires of thought and progress came together. When she returned, with a message from the printer, she found that Mary was putting on her hat firmly; there was something imperious and dominating in her attitude altogether. "Look, Sally," she said, "these letters want copying. These I ve not looked at. The question of the new census will have	taken as a generalization. Mrs. Seal got the teacups out of the cupboard and set them on the table. "You re not going to be married, are you?" she asked, pronouncing the words with nervous speed. "Why are you asking such absurd questions this afternoon, Sally?" Mary asked, not very steadily. "Must we all get married?" Mrs. Seal emitted a most peculiar chuckle. She seemed for one moment to acknowledge the terrible side of life which is concerned with the emotions, the private lives, of the sexes, and then to sheer off from it with all possible speed into the shades of her own shivering virginity. She was made so uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken, that she plunged her head into the cupboard, and endeavored to abstract some very obscure piece of china. "We have our work," she said, withdrawing her head, displaying cheeks more than usually crimson, and placing a jam-pot emphatically upon the table. But, for the moment, she was unable to launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime," said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another. "To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without Reality?" Doing homage to the phrase, she repeated it once more, and caught the ear of Mr. Clacton, as he issued from his room; and he repeated it a third time, giving it, as he was in the habit of doing with Mrs. Seal s phrases, a dryly humorous intonation. He was well pleased with the world, however, and he remarked, in a flattering manner, that he would like to see that phrase in large letters at the head of a leaflet. "But, Mrs. Seal, we have to aim at a judicious combination of the two," he added in his magisterial way to check the unbalanced enthusiasm of the women. "Reality has to be voiced by reason before it can make itself felt. The weak point of all these movements, Miss Datchet," he continued, taking his place at the table and turning to Mary as usual when about to deliver his more profound cogitations, "is that they are not based upon sufficiently intellectual grounds. A mistake, in my opinion. The British public likes a pellet of reason in its jam of eloquence a pill of reason in its pudding of sentiment," he said, sharpening the phrase to a satisfactory degree of literary precision. His eyes rested, with something of the vanity of an author, upon the yellow leaflet which Mary held in her hand. She rose, took her seat at the head of the table, poured out tea for her colleagues, and gave her opinion upon the leaflet. So she had poured out tea, so she had criticized Mr. Clacton s leaflets a hundred times already; but now it seemed to her that she was doing it in a different spirit; she had enlisted in the army, and was a volunteer no longer. She had renounced something and was now how could she express it? not quite "in the running" for life. She had always known that Mr. Clacton and Mrs. Seal were not in the running, and across the gulf that separated them she had seen them in	Night And Day
Rats,	No speaker	"Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone,	the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was	clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I	turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the	littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in	he grunted and went on up again." "His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage." If there s anyone in this house "he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house,	I slipped into the inner room." "It was a queer little room, poorly furnished and with a number of big masks in the corner. On the table was his belated breakfast, and it was a confoundedly exasperating thing for me, Kemp, to have to sniff his coffee and stand watching while he came in and resumed his meal. And his table manners were irritating. Three doors opened into the little room, one going upstairs and one down, but they were all shut. I could not get out of the room while he was there; I could scarcely move because of his alertness, and there was a draught down my back. Twice I strangled a sneeze just in time." "The spectacular quality of my sensations was curious and novel, but for all that I was heartily tired and angry long before he had done his eating. But at last he made an end and putting his beggarly crockery on the black tin tray upon which he had had his teapot, and gathering all the crumbs up on the mustard stained cloth, he took the whole lot of things after him. His burden prevented his shutting the door behind him as he would have done; I never saw such a man for shutting doors and I followed him into a very dirty underground kitchen and scullery. I had the pleasure of seeing him begin to wash up, and then, finding no good in keeping down there, and the brick floor being cold on my feet, I returned upstairs and sat in his chair by the fire. It was burning low, and scarcely thinking, I put on a little coal. The noise of this brought him up at once, and he stood aglare. He peered about the room and was within an ace of touching me. Even after that examination, he scarcely seemed satisfied. He stopped in the doorway and took a final inspection before he went down." "I waited in the little parlour for an age, and at last he came up and opened the upstairs door. I just managed to get by him." "On the staircase he stopped suddenly, so that I very nearly blundered into him. He stood looking back right into my face and listening." I could have sworn, "he said. His long hairy hand pulled at his lower lip. His eye went up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went on up again." "His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage." If there s anyone in this house "he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone," said Kemp. "It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments." "I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback had been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person. Everything that could possibly be of service to me I collected in the clothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate selection. I found a handbag I thought a suitable possession, and some powder, rouge, and sticking-plaster." "I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that there was to show of me, in order to render myself visible, but the disadvantage of this lay in the fact that I should require turpentine and other appliances and a considerable amount of time before I could vanish again. Finally I chose a mask of the better type, slightly grotesque but not more so than many human beings, dark glasses, greyish whiskers, and a wig. I could find no underclothing, but that I could buy subsequently, and for the time I swathed myself in calico dominoes and some white cashmere scarfs. I could find no socks, but the hunchback s boots were rather a loose fit and sufficed. In a desk in the shop were three sovereigns and about thirty shillings worth of silver,	into him. He stood looking back right into my face and listening." I could have sworn, "he said. His long hairy hand pulled at his lower lip. His eye went up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went on up again." "His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage." If there s anyone in this house "he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone," said Kemp. "It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments."	The Invisible Man
said the stranger.	No speaker	directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the	with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined	my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a	must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with	considered that I could not do better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Banker _does_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming in her way. "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?" Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. "A chit," said she. "Not twenty when she was married." "I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler," returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, "that I never was so astonished in my life!" It really did seem to	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_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming in her way. "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?" Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. "A chit," said she. "Not twenty when she was married." "I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler," returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, "that I never was so astonished in my life!" It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost extent of his capacity of being impressed. He looked at his informant for full a quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the surprise in his mind all the time. "I assure you, Mrs. Powler," he then said, much exhausted, "that the father's manner prepared me for a grim and stony maturity. I am obliged to you, of all things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. Many thanks. Good day!" He bowed himself out; and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in the window curtain, saw him languishing down the street on the shady side of the way, observed of all the town. "What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer?" she asked the light porter, when he came to take away. "Spends a deal of money on his dress, ma'am." "It must be admitted," said Mrs. Sparsit, "that it's very tasteful." "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "if that's worth the money." "Besides which, ma'am," resumed Bitzer, while he was polishing the table, "he looks to me as if he gamed." "It's immoral to game," said Mrs. Sparsit. "It's ridiculous, ma'am," said Bitzer, "because the chances are against the players." Whether it was that	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_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming in her way. "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?" Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. "A chit," said she. "Not twenty when she was married." "I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler," returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, "that I never was so astonished in my life!" It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost extent of his capacity of being impressed. He looked at his informant for full a quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the surprise in his mind all the time. "I assure you, Mrs. Powler," he then said, much exhausted, "that the father's manner prepared me for a grim and stony maturity. I am obliged to you, of all things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. Many thanks. Good day!" He bowed himself out; and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in the window curtain, saw him languishing down the street on the shady side of the way, observed of all the town. "What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer?" she asked the light porter, when he came to take away. "Spends a deal of money on his dress, ma'am." "It must be admitted," said Mrs. Sparsit, "that it's very tasteful." "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "if that's worth the money." "Besides which, ma'am," resumed Bitzer, while he was polishing the table, "he looks to me as if he gamed." "It's immoral to game," said Mrs. Sparsit. "It's ridiculous, ma'am," said Bitzer, "because the chances are against the players." Whether it was that the heat prevented Mrs. Sparsit from working, or whether it was that her hand was out, she did no work that night. She sat at the window, when the sun began to sink behind the smoke; she sat there, when the smoke was burning red, when the colour faded from it, when darkness seemed to rise slowly out of the ground, and creep upward, upward, up to the house-tops, up the church steeple, up to the summits of the factory chimneys, up to the sky. Without a candle in the room, Mrs. Sparsit sat at the window, with her hands before her, not thinking much of the sounds of evening; the whooping of boys, the barking of dogs, the rumbling of wheels, the steps and voices of passengers, the shrill street cries, the clogs upon the pavement when it was their hour for going by, the shutting-up of shop-shutters. Not until the light porter announced that her nocturnal sweetbread was ready, did Mrs. Sparsit arouse herself from her reverie, and convey her dense black eyebrows by that time creased with meditation, as if they needed ironing out-up-stairs. "O, you Fool!" said Mrs. Sparsit, when she was alone at her supper. Whom she meant, she did not say; but she could scarcely have meant the sweetbread. CHAPTER II MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE THE Gradgrind party wanted assistance in cutting the throats of the Graces. They went about recruiting; and where could they enlist recruits more hopefully, than among the fine gentlemen who, having found out everything to be worth nothing, were equally ready for anything? Moreover, the healthy spirits who had mounted to this sublime height were attractive to many of the Gradgrind school. They liked fine gentlemen; they pretended that they did not, but they did. They became exhausted in imitation of them; and they yaw-yawed in their speech like them; and they served out, with an enervated air, the little mouldy rations of political economy, on which they regaled their disciples. There never before was seen on earth such a wonderful hybrid race as was thus produced. Among the fine gentlemen not regularly belonging to the Gradgrind school, there was one of a good family and a better appearance, with a happy turn of humour which had told immensely with the House of Commons on the occasion of his entertaining it with his (and the Board of Directors) view of	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_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming in her way. "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?" Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. "A chit," said she. "Not twenty when she was married." "I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler," returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, "that I never was so astonished in my life!" It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost extent of his capacity of being impressed. He looked at his informant for full a quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the surprise in his mind all the time. "I assure you, Mrs. Powler," he then said, much exhausted, "that the father's manner prepared me for a grim and stony maturity. I am obliged to you, of all things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. Many thanks. Good day!" He bowed himself out; and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in the window curtain, saw him languishing down the street on the shady side of the way, observed of all the town. "What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer?" she asked the light porter, when he came to take away. "Spends a deal of money on his dress, ma'am." "It must be admitted," said Mrs. Sparsit, "that it's very tasteful." "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "if that's worth the money." "Besides which, ma'am," resumed Bitzer, while he was polishing the table, "he looks to me as if he gamed." "It's immoral to game," said Mrs. Sparsit. "It's	Hard Times
"He doesn't add much to the gayety."	Jake Barnes	I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's	Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly.	"I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave	in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd	come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at	from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The	and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past	illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on."	The Sun Also Rises
"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"	John Andrew	got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions,	time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye	"Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their	walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest	muffins one of the few things that make the English winter endurable." "Muffins stand for so much," said Jenny. She ate heartily; often she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting crumbs that had become embedded there and melted butter from the muffin. One drop of butter fell on her chin and glittered there unobserved except by Tony. It was a relief to him when John Andrew was brought in. "Come and be introduced to Princess Abdul Akbar." John Andrew had never before seen a Princess; he gazed at her, fascinated. "Aren't you going to give me a kiss?" He walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at	the fire, and if you're nice to me I'll purr, and if you're cruel I shall pretend not to notice--just like a cat... Shall I purr, Teddy?" "Er... yes... do, please, if that's what you like doing." "Englishmen are so gentle and considerate. It's wonderful to be back among them... mine own people. Sometimes when I look back at my life, especially at times like this, among lovely old English things and kind people, I think the whole thing must be a frightful nightmare... then I remember my _scars_..." "Brenda tells me you've taken one of the flats in the same house as hers. They must be very convenient." "How English you are, Teddy--so shy of talking about personal things, intimate things... I like you for that, you know. I love everything that's solid and homely and _good_ after... after all I've been through." "You're not studying economics too, are you, like Brenda?" "No; is Brenda? She never told me. What a wonderful person she is. When _does_ she find the time?" "Ah, here comes tea at last," said Tony. "I hope you allow yourself to eat muffins. So many of our guests nowadays are on a diet. I think muffins one of the few things that make the English winter endurable." "Muffins stand for so much," said Jenny. She ate heartily; often she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting crumbs that had become embedded there and melted butter from the muffin. One drop of butter fell on her chin and glittered there unobserved except by Tony. It was a relief to him when John Andrew was brought in. "Come and be introduced to Princess Abdul Akbar." John Andrew had never before seen a Princess; he gazed at her, fascinated. "Aren't you going to give me a kiss?" He walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on to their hind legs and salute--" "Oh, but they _shouldn't_," said John. "It's _very_ bad horsemanship indeed. Ben says so." "They're the most wonderful horsemen in the world. Everyone knows that." "Oh, no, they can't be, if they do _that_. It's one of the _worst_ things. Were they natives?" "Yes, of course." "Ben says natives aren't humans at all really." "Ah, but he's thinking of Negroes, I expect. These are pure Semitic type." "What's that?" "The same as Jews." "Ben says Jews are worse than natives." "Oh dear, what a very severe boy you are. I was like that once. Life teaches one to be tolerant." "It hasn't taught Ben," said John. "When's mummy coming? I thought she'd be here, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a	little figure huddled herself in the rugs until she reached the gates. Then she opened her bag, tucked up her veil, shook out her powder puff and put her face to rights. She licked the rouge from her finger with a sharp red tongue. Tony was in the smoking-room when she was announced; the library was now too noisy during the daytime, for there were men at work on the walls of the morning-room next door, tearing down the plaster tracery. "Princess Abdul Akbar." He rose to greet her. She was preceded by a heavy odour of musk. "Oh, Mr Last," she said, "what a sweet old place this is." "I'm afraid it's been restored a great deal," said Tony. "Ah, but its _atmosphere_. I always think that's what counts in a house. Such dignity, and repose. But of course you're used to it. When you've been very unhappy as I have, you appreciate these things." Tony said, "I'm afraid Brenda hasn't arrived yet. She's coming by car with Lady Cockpurse." "Brenda's been _such_ a friend to me." The Princess took off her furs and sat down on the stool before the fire, looking up at Tony. "D'you mind if I take off my hat?" "No, no... of course." She threw it on to the sofa and shook out her hair, which was dead black and curled. "D'you know, Mr Last, I'm going to call you Teddy right away. You don't think that very fresh of me? And you must call me Jenny. "Princess" is so formal, isn't it, and suggests tight trousers and gold braid... Of course" ," she went on, stretching out her hands to the fire and letting her hair fall forwards a little across her face, "my husband was not called "Prince" in Morocco; his title was Moulay--but there's no proper equivalent for a woman, so I've always called myself Princess in Europe... Moulay is _far_ higher really... my husband was a descendant of the Prophet. Are you interested in the East?" "No... yes. I mean I know very little about it." "It has an uncanny fascination for me. You must go there, Teddy. I know you'd like it. I've been saying the same to Brenda." "I expect you'd like to see your room," said Tony. "They'll bring tea soon." "No, I'll stay here. I like just to curl up like a cat in front of the fire, and if you're nice to me I'll purr, and if you're cruel I shall pretend not to notice--just like a cat... Shall I purr, Teddy?" "Er... yes... do, please, if that's what you like doing." "Englishmen are so gentle and considerate. It's wonderful to be back among them... mine own people. Sometimes when I look back at my life, especially at times like this, among lovely old English things and kind people, I think the whole thing must be a frightful nightmare... then I remember my _scars_..." "Brenda tells me you've taken one of the flats in the same house as hers. They must be very convenient." "How English you are, Teddy--so shy of talking about personal things, intimate things... I like you for that, you know. I love everything that's solid and homely and _good_ after... after all I've been through." "You're not studying economics too, are you, like Brenda?" "No; is Brenda? She never told me. What a wonderful person she is. When _does_ she find the time?" "Ah, here comes tea at last," said Tony. "I hope you allow yourself to eat muffins. So many of our guests nowadays are on a diet. I think muffins one of the few things that make the English winter endurable." "Muffins stand for so much," said Jenny. She ate heartily; often she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting crumbs that had become embedded there and melted butter from the muffin. One drop of butter fell on her chin and glittered there unobserved except by Tony. It was a relief to him when John Andrew was brought in. "Come and be introduced to Princess Abdul Akbar." John Andrew had never before seen a Princess; he gazed at her, fascinated. "Aren't you going to give me a kiss?" He walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on to their hind legs and salute--" "Oh, but they _shouldn't_," said John. "It's _very_ bad horsemanship indeed. Ben says so." "They're the most wonderful horsemen in the world. Everyone knows that." "Oh, no, they can't be, if they do _that_. It's one of the _worst_ things. Were they natives?" "Yes, of course." "Ben says natives aren't humans at all really." "Ah, but he's thinking of Negroes, I expect. These are pure Semitic type." "What's that?" "The same as Jews." "Ben says Jews are worse than natives." "Oh dear, what a very severe boy you are. I was like that once. Life teaches one to be tolerant." "It hasn't taught Ben," said John. "When's mummy coming? I thought she'd be here, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a dull world if we all thought alike," she said. "She's more beautiful than Miss Tendril, even. I think she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen... D'you think she'd like to watch me have my bath?" Downstairs, Jenny said, "What a heavenly child... I love children. That has been my great tragedy. It was when he found I couldn't have children that the Moulay first showed the Other Side of his Nature. It wasn't my fault... you see my womb is out of place... I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a _waste of time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all	little about it." "It has an uncanny fascination for me. You must go there, Teddy. I know you'd like it. I've been saying the same to Brenda." "I expect you'd like to see your room," said Tony. "They'll bring tea soon." "No, I'll stay here. I like just to curl up like a cat in front of the fire, and if you're nice to me I'll purr, and if you're cruel I shall pretend not to notice--just like a cat... Shall I purr, Teddy?" "Er... yes... do, please, if that's what you like doing." "Englishmen are so gentle and considerate. It's wonderful to be back among them... mine own people. Sometimes when I look back at my life, especially at times like this, among lovely old English things and kind people, I think the whole thing must be a frightful nightmare... then I remember my _scars_..." "Brenda tells me you've taken one of the flats in the same house as hers. They must be very convenient." "How English you are, Teddy--so shy of talking about personal things, intimate things... I like you for that, you know. I love everything that's solid and homely and _good_ after... after all I've been through." "You're not studying economics too, are you, like Brenda?" "No; is Brenda? She never told me. What a wonderful person she is. When _does_ she find the time?" "Ah, here comes tea at last," said Tony. "I hope you allow yourself to eat muffins. So many of our guests nowadays are on a diet. I think muffins one of the few things that make the English winter endurable." "Muffins stand for so much," said Jenny. She ate heartily; often she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting crumbs that had become embedded there and melted butter from the muffin. One drop of butter fell on her chin and glittered there unobserved except by Tony. It was a relief to him when John Andrew was brought in. "Come and be introduced to Princess Abdul Akbar." John Andrew had never before seen a Princess; he gazed at her, fascinated. "Aren't you going to give me a kiss?" He walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on to their hind legs and salute--" "Oh, but they _shouldn't_," said John. "It's _very_ bad horsemanship indeed. Ben says so." "They're the most wonderful horsemen in the world. Everyone knows that." "Oh, no, they can't be, if they do _that_. It's one of the _worst_ things. Were they natives?" "Yes, of course." "Ben says natives aren't humans at all really." "Ah, but he's thinking of Negroes, I expect. These are pure Semitic type." "What's that?" "The same as Jews." "Ben says Jews are worse than natives." "Oh dear, what a very severe boy you are. I was like that once. Life teaches one to be tolerant." "It hasn't taught Ben," said John. "When's mummy coming? I thought she'd be here, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a dull world if we all thought alike," she said. "She's more beautiful than Miss Tendril, even. I think she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen... D'you think she'd like to watch me have my bath?" Downstairs, Jenny said, "What a heavenly child... I love children. That has been my great tragedy. It was when he found I couldn't have children that the Moulay first showed the Other Side of his Nature. It wasn't my fault... you see my womb is out of place... I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a _waste of time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say	A Handful Of Dust
There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.	No speaker	like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said	which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land,	course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose	try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited	Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there	church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite indifferent to their fate; and this indifference seemed so great that some of the thoughtless children began to laugh and talk aloud. For some time this was passed over unnoticed; but at last one of the guards, a tall Maori, whose face was so lined in curves that it seemed to be absolutely blue, walked slowly over to the merry group, spear in hand, to give one child a poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give	only response, and he lay thinking of home and of his bedroom all those thousand miles away. And as he thought of Bristol, a curious feeling of thankfulness came over him that his mother was in ignorance of the fate that had befallen her son. "What would she say--what would she think, if she knew that I was lying here on the ground, a prisoner, and wounded--here at the mercy of a set of savages--what would she say?" A short time before Don had been thinking that fate had done its worst for him, and that his position could not possibly have been more grave. But he thought now that it might have been far worse, for his mother was spared his horror. And then as he lay helpless there, and in pain, with his companion badly hurt, and the low moan of some wounded savage now and then making him shudder, the scene of the desperate fight seemed to come back, and he felt feverish and wild. But after a time that passed off, and the pain and chill troubled him, but only to pass off as well, and be succeeded by a drowsy sensation. And then as he lay there, the words of the old, old prayers he had repeated at his mother's knee rose to his lips, and he was repeating them as sleep fell upon his weary eyes; and the agony and horrors of that terrible time were as nothing to him then. The Adventures of Don Lavington--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER FORTY ONE. PRISONERS OF WAR. "I wish our old ship was here, and I was at one of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside." "It is very, very horrible, Jem." "Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was we all as quiet and comf'table as could be--taking our warm baths. I say, shouldn't I like one now! I'm that stiff and sore I can hardly move." "Yes, it would be a comfort, Jem." "Yes, and as I was saying, here was we going on as quiet as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose they calls this a village; I don't, for there arn't no church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite indifferent to their fate; and this indifference seemed so great that some of the thoughtless children began to laugh and talk aloud. For some time this was passed over unnoticed; but at last one of the guards, a tall Maori, whose face was so lined in curves that it seemed to be absolutely blue, walked slowly over to the merry group, spear in hand, to give one child a poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give a threatening gesture with his spear. Just at that moment, however, a loud shouting and singing arose, which took the man's attention, and he and his fellows mounted on a stage at one corner of the _pah_ to stand leaning upon their spears, gazing down at the festivities being carried on at the edge of the sands below. For some time past it had seemed to Don that the plundering party had fired the village, for a tall column of smoke had risen up, and this had died down and risen again as combustible matter had caught. The fire was too far below to be seen, but the smoke rose in clouds as the work of destruction seemed to be going on. The singing and shouting increased, and once or twice the other prisoners appeared to take an excited interest in the sounds that came up to them; but they only sank directly after into a state of moody apathy, letting their chins go down upon their chests, and many of them dropping off to sleep. The noise and shouting had been going on for some time, and then ceased, to be succeeded by a low, busy murmur, as of a vast swarm of bees; and now, after sitting very silent and thoughtful, watching the faint smoke which came up from the fire, and eagerly drinking in the various sounds, Don turned his eyes in a curiously furtive manner to steal a look at Jem. He did not move his head, but proceeded with the greatest caution, so as to try and read his companion's countenance, when, to his surprise, he found that Jem was stealing a look at him, and both, as it were, snatched their eyes away, and began looking at the prisoners. But at that time it was as if the eyes of both were filled with some strange attractive force, which made them turn and gaze in a peculiarly hard, wild way. Don seemed to be reading Jem's thoughts as his sight plunged deeply into the eyes of his companion, and as he gazed, he shuddered, and tried to look elsewhere. But he could not look elsewhere, only hard at Jem, who also shuddered, and looked shame-faced and horrified. For they were reading each other's thoughts only too correctly, and the effect of that perusal was to make big drops of perspiration roll down Jem's face,	as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose they calls this a village; I don't, for there arn't no church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite indifferent to their fate; and this indifference seemed so great that some of the thoughtless children began to laugh and talk aloud. For some time this was passed over unnoticed; but at last one of the guards, a tall Maori, whose face was so lined in curves that it seemed to be absolutely blue, walked slowly over to the merry group, spear in hand, to give one child a poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give a threatening gesture with his spear. Just at that moment, however, a loud shouting and singing arose, which took the man's attention, and he and his fellows mounted on a stage at one corner of the _pah_ to stand leaning upon their spears, gazing down at the festivities being carried on at the edge of the sands below. For some time past it had seemed to Don that the plundering party had fired the village, for a tall column	Don Lavington
"'Tis too much!"	Jane	happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too	emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve	the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she	they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but	letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. "And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious	and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. "And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her	Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?" But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. "And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed how really happy he was. Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter and said, "Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman." Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness. "You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your income." "I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters, would be unpardonable in _me_." "Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife, "what are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a-year, and very likely more." Then addressing her daughter, "Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so happy! I am sure I sha'nt get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that ever was seen!" Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense. Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter. Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor	of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. "And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she	Pride And Prejudice
"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."	Ronny Heaslop	words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela,	God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause	Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the	inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy	being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was	a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash.	On seeing the City Magistrate alone with a maiden at twilight, he had borne down on them with hospitable intent. He had a new little car, and wished to place it at their disposal; the City Magistrate would decide whether the offer was acceptable. Ronny was by this time rather ashamed of his curtness to Aziz and Godbole, and here was an opportunity of showing that he could treat Indians with consideration when they deserved it. So he said to Adela, with the same sad friendliness that he had employed when discussing the bird, "Would half an hour's spin entertain you at all?" "Oughtn't we to get back to the bungalow." "Why?" He gazed at her. "I think perhaps I ought to see your mother and discuss future plans." "That's as you like, but there's no hurry, is there?" "Let me take you to the bungalow, and first the little spin," cried the old man, and hastened to the car. "He may show you some aspect of the country I can't, and he's a real loyalist. I thought you might care for a bit of a change." Determined to give him no more trouble, she agreed, but her desire to see India had suddenly decreased. There had been a factitious element in it. How should they seat themselves in the car? The elegant grandson had to be left behind. The Nawab Bahadur got up in front, for he had no intention of neighbouring an English girl. "Despite my advanced years, I am learning to drive," he said. "Man can learn everything if he will but try." And foreseeing a further difficulty, he added, "I do not do the actual steering. I sit and ask my chauffeur questions, and thus learn the reason for everything that is done before I do it myself. By this method serious and I may say ludicrous accidents, such as befell one of my compatriots during that delightful reception at the English Club, are avoided. Our good Panna Lal! I hope, sahib, that great damage was not done to your flowers. Let us have our little spin down the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!" He fell asleep. Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed along a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash. Harris, well done!" "A smash, sahib, that would not have taken place had he obeyed and taken us Gangavati side, instead of Marabar." "My fault that. I told him to come this way because the road's better. Mr. Lesley has made it pukka right up to the hills." "Ah, now I begin to understand." Seeming to pull himself together, he apologized slowly and elaborately for the accident. Ronny murmured, "Not at all," but apologies were his due, and should have started sooner: because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab Bahadur had not come out very well. At that moment a large car approached from the opposite direction. Ronny advanced a few steps down the road, and with authority in his voice and gesture stopped it. It bore the inscription "Mudkul State" across its bonnet. All friskiness and friendliness, Miss Derek sat inside. "Mr. Heaslop, Miss Quested, what are you holding up an innocent female for?" "We've had a breakdown." "But how putrid!" "We ran into a hyena!" "How absolutely rotten!" "Can you give us a lift?" "Yes, indeed." "Take me too," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Heh, what about me?" cried Mr. Harris. "Now what's all this? I'm not an omnibus," said Miss Derek with decision. "I've a harmonium and two dogs in here with me as it is. I'll take three of you if one'll sit in front and nurse a pug. No more." "I will sit in front," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Then hop in: I've no notion who you are." "Heh no, what about my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night." Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this." "Nussu will bring you out some suitable dinner upon a bicycle," said the Nawab Bahadur, who had regained his usual dignity. "I shall despatch him with all possible speed. Meanwhile, repair my car." They sped off, and Mr. Harris, after a reproachful glance, squatted down	reception at the English Club, are avoided. Our good Panna Lal! I hope, sahib, that great damage was not done to your flowers. Let us have our little spin down the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!" He fell asleep. Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed along a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash. Harris, well done!" "A smash, sahib, that would not have taken place had he obeyed and taken us Gangavati side, instead of Marabar." "My fault that. I told him to come this way because the road's better. Mr. Lesley has made it pukka right up to the hills." "Ah, now I begin to understand." Seeming to pull himself together, he apologized slowly and elaborately for the accident. Ronny murmured, "Not at all," but apologies were his due, and should have started sooner: because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab Bahadur had not come out very well. At that moment a large car approached from the opposite direction. Ronny	A Passage To India
"My dear Lucia--"	Miss Bartlett	take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I	in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how	prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think	to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or	without a slight twitching of the lips. "And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?" "I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?" "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that." "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed	acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one--of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult--at least, I find it difficult--to understand people who speak the truth." Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice." "I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say I hope--you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people's backs up. He has no tact and no manners--I don't mean by that that he has bad manners--and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it." "Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that he is a Socialist?" Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips. "And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?" "I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?" "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that." "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister's health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else. "But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English." "Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed." "Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner." "I think he was meaning to be kind." "Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett. "Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I	not do. Lucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow. The father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow, but by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something. She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains--curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by 'Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South. And even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy? Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr. Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. "We are most grateful to you," she was saying. "The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais quart d'heure." He expressed his regret. "Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?" "Emerson." "Is he a friend of yours?" "We are friendly--as one is in pensions." "Then I will say no more." He pressed her very slightly, and she said more. "I am, as it were," she concluded, "the chaperon of my young cousin, Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best." "You acted very naturally," said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: "All the same, I don't think much harm would have come of accepting." "No harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation." "He is rather a peculiar man." Again he hesitated, and then said gently: "I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one--of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult--at least, I find it difficult--to understand people who speak the truth." Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice." "I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say I hope--you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people's backs up. He has no tact and no manners--I don't mean by that that he has bad manners--and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it." "Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that he is a Socialist?" Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips. "And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?" "I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?" "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that." "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister's health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else. "But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English." "Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed." "Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner." "I think he was meaning to be kind." "Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett. "Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin's account." "Of course," said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl. Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it. "About old Mr. Emerson--I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?" "Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. "Are not beauty and delicacy the same?" "So one would have thought," said the other helplessly. "But things are so difficult, I sometimes think." She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant. "Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about the rooms. I'm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased." "Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be." Miss Bartlett was silent. "I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference." Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: "My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?" She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message. "Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events." Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously: "Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead."	though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. "We are most grateful to you," she was saying. "The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais quart d'heure." He expressed his regret. "Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?" "Emerson." "Is he a friend of yours?" "We are friendly--as one is in pensions." "Then I will say no more." He pressed her very slightly, and she said more. "I am, as it were," she concluded, "the chaperon of my young cousin, Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best." "You acted very naturally," said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: "All the same, I don't think much harm would have come of accepting." "No harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation." "He is rather a peculiar man." Again he hesitated, and then said gently: "I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one--of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult--at least, I find it difficult--to understand people who speak the truth." Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice." "I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say I hope--you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people's backs up. He has no tact and no manners--I don't mean by that that he has bad manners--and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it." "Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that he is a Socialist?" Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips. "And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?" "I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?" "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that." "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about	A Room With A View
"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"	Jem Wimble	ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at	another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If	to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course	of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then	pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in. "Men--boat," he said, pointing, and then clapping his hand to his ear as a distant hail came like a whisper up the gully, which was almost at right angles to the beach. "He wants us to hide here, Jem," said Don; and he went up to the entrance and looked in. A hot, steamy breath of air came like a puff into his face, and a strange low moaning noise fell upon his ear, followed by a faint whistle, that was strongly suggestive of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then dropping rapidly down from point to point till he was at the bottom, Jem peering over the edge of the shelf, and watching him till he had disappeared. "Arn't gone to tell them where we are, have he, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. How suspicious you are!" "Ah, so'll you be when you get as old as I am," said Jem, creeping back to where Don was standing, looking inward. "Well, what sort of a place is it, Mas' Don?" "I can't see in far, but the cavern seems to go right in, like a long crooked passage." "Crooked enough, and	to graze. Why, you wouldn't find nothing but the tips of his ears to-morrow morning." Another hail rang out, and was answered in two places. "I say, Mas' Don, they're hunting for us, and we shall have to run." He made signs to the chief indicative of a desire to run, but Ngati shook his head, and pointed onward. They followed on, listening to the shouts, which came nearer, till Ngati suddenly took a sharp turn round a great buttress of lava, and entered a wild, narrow, forbidding-looking chasm, where on either side the black, jagged masses of rock were piled up several hundred feet, and made glorious by streams which coursed among the delicately green ferns. "Look's damp," said Jem, as Ngati led them on for about fifty yards, and then began to climb, his companions following him, till he reached a shelf about a hundred feet up, and beckoned to them to come. "Does he think this here's the rigging of a ship, and want us to set sail?" grumbled Jem. "Here, I say, what's the good of our coming there?" The chief stamped his foot, and made an imperious gesture, which brought them to his side. He pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in. "Men--boat," he said, pointing, and then clapping his hand to his ear as a distant hail came like a whisper up the gully, which was almost at right angles to the beach. "He wants us to hide here, Jem," said Don; and he went up to the entrance and looked in. A hot, steamy breath of air came like a puff into his face, and a strange low moaning noise fell upon his ear, followed by a faint whistle, that was strongly suggestive of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then dropping rapidly down from point to point till he was at the bottom, Jem peering over the edge of the shelf, and watching him till he had disappeared. "Arn't gone to tell them where we are, have he, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. How suspicious you are!" "Ah, so'll you be when you get as old as I am," said Jem, creeping back to where Don was standing, looking inward. "Well, what sort of a place is it, Mas' Don?" "I can't see in far, but the cavern seems to go right in, like a long crooked passage." "Crooked enough, and long enough," grumbled Jem. "Hark!" Don listened, and heard a faint hail. "They're coming along searching for us, I suppose." "I didn't mean that sound; I meant this. There, listen again." Don took a step into the cave, but went no farther, for Jem gripped his arm. "Take care, my lad. 'Tarn't safe. Hear that noise?" "Yes; it is like some animal breathing hard." "And we've got no pistols nor cutlashes. It's a lion, I know." "There are no lions here, Jem." "Arn't there? Then it's a tiger. I know un. I've seen 'em. Hark!" "But there are no tigers, nor any other fierce beasts here, Jem." "Now, how can you be so obstinate, Mas' Don, when you can hear 'em whistling, and sighing and breathing hard right in yonder. No, no, not a step farther do you go." "Don't be so foolish, Jem." "'Tarn't foolish, Mas' Don; and look here: I'm going to take advantage of them being asleep to put on my proper costoom, and if you'll take my advice, you'll do just the same." Don hesitated, but Jem took advantage of a handy seat-like piece of rock, and altered his dress rapidly, an example that, after a	though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death. "Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, `It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?" "Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper. "Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup." "Be quiet, and follow. Hist! Hark!" Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint hail, followed by another nearer, which seemed to be in answer. "They're arter us, sir, and if we're to be ketched I don't mean to be ketched like this." "What are you going to do, Jem?" "Do?" said Jem, unrolling his bundled-up clothes, and preparing to sit down, "make myself look like an ornery Chrishtun." "Don't sit down there, Jem!" cried Don, as Ngati gave a warning cry at the same moment, and started back. But they were too late, for Jem had chosen a delicately green mossy and ferny patch, and plumped himself down, to utter a cry of horror, and snatch at the extended hands. For the green ferny patch was a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow was settling as he was dragged out. "Fah!" ejaculated Jem, pinching his nose. "Here, I've had 'most enough o' this place. Nice sort o' spot this would be to turn a donkey out to graze. Why, you wouldn't find nothing but the tips of his ears to-morrow morning." Another hail rang out, and was answered in two places. "I say, Mas' Don, they're hunting for us, and we shall have to run." He made signs to the chief indicative of a desire to run, but Ngati shook his head, and pointed onward. They followed on, listening to the shouts, which came nearer, till Ngati suddenly took a sharp turn round a great buttress of lava, and entered a wild, narrow, forbidding-looking chasm, where on either side the black, jagged masses of rock were piled up several hundred feet, and made glorious by streams which coursed among the delicately green ferns. "Look's damp," said Jem, as Ngati led them on for about fifty yards, and then began to climb, his companions following him, till he reached a shelf about a hundred feet up, and beckoned to them to come. "Does he think this here's the rigging of a ship, and want us to set sail?" grumbled Jem. "Here, I say, what's the good of our coming there?" The chief stamped his foot, and made an imperious gesture, which brought them to his side. He pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in. "Men--boat," he said, pointing, and then clapping his hand to his ear as a distant hail came like a whisper up the gully, which was almost at right angles to the beach. "He wants us to hide here, Jem," said Don; and he went up to the entrance and looked in. A hot, steamy breath of air came like a puff into his face, and a strange low moaning noise fell upon his ear, followed by a faint whistle, that was strongly suggestive of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then dropping rapidly down from point to point till he was at the bottom, Jem peering over the edge of the shelf, and watching him till he had disappeared. "Arn't gone to tell them where we are, have he, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. How suspicious you are!" "Ah, so'll you be when you get as old as I am," said Jem, creeping back to where Don was standing, looking inward. "Well, what sort of a place is it, Mas' Don?" "I can't see in far, but the cavern seems to go right in, like a long crooked passage." "Crooked enough, and long enough," grumbled Jem. "Hark!" Don listened, and heard a faint hail. "They're coming along searching for us, I suppose." "I didn't mean that sound; I meant this. There, listen again." Don took a step into the cave, but went no farther, for Jem gripped his arm. "Take care, my lad. 'Tarn't safe. Hear that noise?" "Yes; it is like some animal breathing hard." "And we've got no pistols nor cutlashes. It's a lion, I know." "There are no lions here, Jem." "Arn't there? Then it's a tiger. I know un. I've seen 'em. Hark!" "But there are no tigers, nor any other fierce beasts here, Jem." "Now, how can you be so obstinate, Mas' Don, when you can hear 'em whistling, and sighing and breathing hard right in yonder. No, no, not a step farther do you go." "Don't be so foolish, Jem." "'Tarn't foolish, Mas' Don; and look here: I'm going to take advantage of them being asleep to put on my proper costoom, and if you'll take my advice, you'll do just the same." Don hesitated, but Jem took advantage of a handy seat-like piece of rock, and altered his dress rapidly, an example that, after a moment or two of hesitation, Don followed. "Dry as a bone," said Jem. "Come, that's better. I feels like a human being now. Just before I felt like a chap outside one of the shows at our fair." He doubled up the blanket he had been wearing, and threw it over his arm; while Don folded his, and laid it down, so that he could peer over the edge of the shelf, and command the entrance to the ravine. But all was perfectly silent and deserted, and, after waiting some time, he rose, and went a little way inside the cavern. "Don't! Don't be so precious rash, Mas' Don," cried Jem pettishly, as, urged on by his curiosity, Don went slowly, step by step, toward what seemed to be a dark blue veil of mist, which shut off farther view into the cave. "I don't think there's anything to mind, or they wouldn't have told us to hide here." "But you don't know, my lad. There may be dangerous wild critters in there as you never heard tell on. Graffems, and dragons, and beasts with stings in their tails--cockatoos." "Nonsense! Cockatrices," said Don laughing. "Well, it's all the same. Now, do be advised, Mas' Don, and stop here." "But I want to know what it's like farther in." Don went slowly forward into the dim mist, and Jem followed, murmuring bitterly at his being so rash. "Mind!" he cried suddenly, as a louder whistle than ordinary came from the depths of the cave, and the sound was so weird and strange that Don stopped short. The noise was not repeated, but the peculiar hissing went on, and, as if from a great distance, there came gurglings and rushing sounds, as if from water. "I know we shall get in somewhere, and not get out again, Mas' Don. There now, hark at that!" "It's only hot water, the same as we heard gurgling in our bath," said Don, still progressing. "Well, suppose it is. The more reason for your not going. P'r'aps this is where it comes from first, and nice place it must be where all that water's made hot. Let's go back, and wait close at the front." "No; let's go a little farther, Jem." "Why, I'm so hot now, my lad, I feel as if I was being steamed like a tater. Here, let's get back, and--" "Hist!"	a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow was settling as he was dragged out. "Fah!" ejaculated Jem, pinching his nose. "Here, I've had 'most enough o' this place. Nice sort o' spot this would be to turn a donkey out to graze. Why, you wouldn't find nothing but the tips of his ears to-morrow morning." Another hail rang out, and was answered in two places. "I say, Mas' Don, they're hunting for us, and we shall have to run." He made signs to the chief indicative of a desire to run, but Ngati shook his head, and pointed onward. They followed on, listening to the shouts, which came nearer, till Ngati suddenly took a sharp turn round a great buttress of lava, and entered a wild, narrow, forbidding-looking chasm, where on either side the black, jagged masses of rock were piled up several hundred feet, and made glorious by streams which coursed among the delicately green ferns. "Look's damp," said Jem, as Ngati led them on for about fifty yards, and then began to climb, his companions following him, till he reached a shelf about a hundred feet up, and beckoned to them to come. "Does he think this here's the rigging of a ship, and want us to set sail?" grumbled Jem. "Here, I say, what's the good of our coming there?" The chief stamped his foot, and made an imperious gesture, which brought them to his side. He pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in. "Men--boat," he said, pointing, and then clapping his hand to his ear as a distant hail came like a whisper up the gully, which was almost at right angles to the beach. "He wants us to hide here, Jem," said Don; and he went up to the entrance and looked in. A hot, steamy breath of air came like a puff into his face, and a strange low moaning noise fell upon his ear, followed by a faint whistle, that was strongly suggestive of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then dropping rapidly down from point to point till he was at the bottom, Jem peering over the edge of the shelf, and watching him till he had disappeared. "Arn't gone to tell them where we are, have he, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. How suspicious you are!" "Ah, so'll you be when you get as old as I am," said Jem, creeping back to where Don was standing, looking inward. "Well, what sort of a place is it, Mas' Don?" "I can't see in far, but the cavern seems to go right in, like a long crooked passage." "Crooked enough, and long enough," grumbled Jem. "Hark!" Don listened, and heard a faint hail. "They're coming along searching for us, I suppose." "I didn't mean that sound; I meant this. There, listen again." Don took a step into the cave, but went no farther, for Jem gripped his arm. "Take care, my lad. 'Tarn't safe. Hear that noise?" "Yes; it is like some animal breathing hard." "And we've got no pistols nor cutlashes. It's a lion, I know." "There are no lions here, Jem." "Arn't there? Then it's a tiger. I know un. I've seen 'em. Hark!" "But there are no tigers, nor any other fierce beasts here, Jem." "Now, how can you be so obstinate, Mas' Don, when you can hear 'em whistling, and sighing and breathing hard right in yonder. No, no, not a step farther do you go." "Don't be so foolish, Jem." "'Tarn't foolish, Mas' Don; and look here: I'm going to take advantage of them being asleep to put on my proper costoom, and if you'll take my advice, you'll do just the same." Don hesitated, but Jem took advantage of a handy seat-like piece of rock, and altered his dress rapidly, an example that, after a moment or two of hesitation, Don followed. "Dry as a bone," said Jem. "Come, that's better. I feels like a human being now. Just before I felt like a chap outside one of the shows at our fair." He doubled up the blanket he had been wearing, and threw it over his arm; while Don folded his, and laid it down, so that he could peer over the edge of the shelf, and command the entrance to the ravine. But all was perfectly silent and deserted, and, after waiting some time, he rose, and went a little way inside the cavern. "Don't! Don't be so precious rash, Mas' Don," cried Jem pettishly, as, urged on by his curiosity, Don went slowly, step by step, toward what seemed to be a dark blue veil of mist, which shut off farther view into the cave. "I don't think there's anything to mind, or they wouldn't have told us to hide here." "But you don't know, my lad. There may be dangerous wild critters in there as you never heard tell	Don Lavington
"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"	Mr. Losberne	colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at	particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles,	had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage;	proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into	shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of	no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me." "She shall," said Mrs. Maylie. "There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother," said the young man. "Not coldly," rejoined the old lady; "far from it." "How then?" urged the young man. "She has formed no other attachment?" "No, indeed," replied his mother; "you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say," resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, "is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic." "What do you mean?" "That I leave you to discover," replied Mrs. Maylie. "I must go back to her. God bless you!" "I shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, "No, no"; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are. Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at	Above all, I think" said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son's face, "that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does so." "Mother," said the young man, impatiently, "he would be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted thus." "You think so now, Harry," replied his mother. "And ever will!" said the young man. "The mental agony I have suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little." "Harry," said Mrs. Maylie, "it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now." "Let it rest with Rose, then," interposed Harry. "You will not press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my way?" "I will not," rejoined Mrs. Maylie; "but I would have you consider" "I _have_ considered!" was the impatient reply; "Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me." "She shall," said Mrs. Maylie. "There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother," said the young man. "Not coldly," rejoined the old lady; "far from it." "How then?" urged the young man. "She has formed no other attachment?" "No, indeed," replied his mother; "you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say," resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, "is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic." "What do you mean?" "That I leave you to discover," replied Mrs. Maylie. "I must go back to her. God bless you!" "I shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, "No, no"; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are. Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need. Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision. It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady's chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was made up with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away, although the	"No, indeed," replied his mother; "you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say," resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, "is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic." "What do you mean?" "That I leave you to discover," replied Mrs. Maylie. "I must go back to her. God bless you!" "I shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, "No, no"; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause,	Oliver Twist
Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.	No speaker	"These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift	his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the	a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not	on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed	he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills. Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus started, and Robert Cohn waved good-by to us, and all the Basques waved good-by to him. As soon as we started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He held the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly. "Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?" The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took	were sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all had their fans going in the sun. It certainly was hot. Robert climbed down and I fitted into the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top. Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting for us start. A Basque with a big leather wine-bag in his lap lay across the top of the bus in front of our seat, leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin to Bill and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that I spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills. Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus started, and Robert Cohn waved good-by to us, and all the Basques waved good-by to him. As soon as we started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He held the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly. "Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?" The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took on several packages. Then we started on again, and outside the town the road commenced to mount. We were going through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down into the fields. The grain-fields went up the hillsides. Now as we went higher there was a wind blowing the grain. The road was white and dusty, and the dust rose under the wheels and hung in the air behind us. The road climbed up into the hills and left the rich grain-fields below. Now there were only patches of grain on the bare hillsides and on each side of the water-courses. We turned sharply out to the side of the road to give room to pass to a long string of six mules, following one after the other, hauling a high-hooded wagon loaded with freight. The wagon and the mules were covered with dust. Close behind was another string of mules and another wagon. This was loaded with lumber, and the arriero driving the mules leaned back and put on the thick wooden brakes as we passed. Up here the country was quite barren and the hills were rocky and hard-baked clay furrowed by the rain. We came around a	Did she ever have anything to do with him?" He raised his chin up and pulled it from side to side. "Sure. She went down to San Sebastian with him." "What a damn-fool thing to do. Why did she do that?" "She wanted to get out of town and she can't go anywhere alone. She said she thought it would be good for him." "What bloody-fool things people do. Why didn't she go off with some of her own people? Or you?" "--he slurred that over--" "or me? Why not me?" He looked at his face carefully in the glass, put a big dab of lather on each cheek-bone. "It's an honest face. It's a face any woman would be safe with." "She'd never seen it." "She should have. All women should see it. It's a face that ought to be thrown on every screen in the country. Every woman ought to be given a copy of this face as she leaves the altar. Mothers should tell their daughters about this face. My son" "--he pointed the razor at me--" "go west with this face and grow up with the country." He ducked down to the bowl, rinsed his face with cold water, put on some alcohol, and then looked at himself carefully in the glass, pulling down his long upper lip. "My God!" he said, "isn't it an awful face?" He looked in the glass. "And as for this Robert Cohn," Bill said, "he makes me sick, and he can go to hell, and I'm damn glad he's staying here so we won't have him fishing with us." "You're damn right." "We're going trout-fishing. We're going trout-fishing in the Irati River, and we're going to get tight now at lunch on the wine of the country, and then take a swell bus ride." "Come on. Let's go over to the Iru a and start," I said. CHAPTER 11 It was baking hot in the square when we came out after lunch with our bags and the rod-case to go to Burguete. People were on top of the bus, and others were climbing up a ladder. Bill went up and Robert sat beside Bill to save a place for me, and I went back in the hotel to get a couple of bottles of wine to take with us. When I came out the bus was crowded. Men and women were sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all had their fans going in the sun. It certainly was hot. Robert climbed down and I fitted into the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top. Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting for us start. A Basque with a big leather wine-bag in his lap lay across the top of the bus in front of our seat, leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin to Bill and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that I spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills. Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus started, and Robert Cohn waved good-by to us, and all the Basques waved good-by to him. As soon as we started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He held the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly. "Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?" The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took on several packages. Then we started on again, and outside the town the road commenced to mount. We were going through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down into the fields. The grain-fields went up the hillsides. Now as we went higher there was a wind blowing the grain. The road was white and dusty, and the dust rose under the wheels and hung in the air behind us. The road climbed up into the hills and left the rich grain-fields below. Now there were only patches of grain on the bare hillsides and on each side of the water-courses. We turned sharply out to the side of the road to give room to pass to a long string of six mules, following one after the other, hauling a high-hooded wagon loaded with freight. The wagon and the mules were covered with dust. Close behind was another string of mules and another wagon. This was loaded with lumber, and the arriero driving the mules leaned back and put on the thick wooden brakes as we passed. Up here the country was quite barren and the hills were rocky and hard-baked clay furrowed by the rain. We came around a curve into a town, and on both sides opened out a sudden green valley. A stream went through the centre of the town and fields of grapes touched the houses. The bus stopped in front of a posada and many of the passengers got down, and a lot of the baggage was unstrapped from the roof from under the big tarpaulins and lifted down. Bill and I got down and went into the posada. There was a low, dark room with saddles and harness, and hay-forks made of white wood, and clusters of canvas rope-soled shoes and hams and slabs of bacon and white garlics and long sausages hanging from the roof. It was cool and dusky, and we stood in front of a long wooden counter with two women behind it serving drinks. Behind them were shelves stacked with supplies and goods. We each had an aguardiente and paid forty centimes for the two drinks. I gave the woman fifty centimes to make a tip, and she gave me back the copper piece, thinking I had misunderstood the price. Two of our Basques came in and insisted on buying a drink. So they bought a drink and then we bought a drink, and then they slapped us on the back and bought another drink. Then we bought, and then we all went out into the sunlight and the heat, and climbed back on top of the bus. There was plenty of room now for every one to sit on the seat, and the Basque who had been lying on the tin roof now sat between us. The woman who had been serving drinks came out wiping her hands on her apron and talked to somebody inside the bus. Then the driver came out swinging two flat leather mail-pouches and climbed up, and everybody waving we started off. The road left the green valley at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and the wine-bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and asked in English: "You're Americans?" "Sure." "I been there," he said. "Forty years ago." He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the stubble of a white beard. "How was it?" "What you say?" "How was America?" "Oh, I was in California. It was fine." "Why did you leave?" "What you say?"	the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that I spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills. Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus started, and Robert Cohn waved good-by to us, and all the Basques waved good-by to him. As soon as we started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He held the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly. "Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?" The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took on several packages. Then we started on again, and outside the town the road commenced to mount. We were going through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down into the fields. The grain-fields went up the hillsides. Now as we went higher there was a wind	The Sun Also Rises
"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"	Brett Ashley	awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been	got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having	wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking	mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on,"	said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the	look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the	and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook	said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do	The Sun Also Rises
"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."	Mrs. Hilbery	from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each	to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then	tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully.	unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance	flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!" she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these	the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!" she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of	Mr. Hilbery lived in a house which was accurately numbered in order with its fellows, and that he filled up forms, paid rent, and had seven more years of tenancy to run, he had an excuse for laying down laws for the conduct of those who lived in his house, and this excuse, though profoundly inadequate, he found useful during the interregnum of civilization with which he now found himself faced. In obedience to those laws, Rodney disappeared; Cassandra was dispatched to catch the eleven-thirty on Monday morning; Denham was seen no more; so that only Katharine, the lawful occupant of the upper rooms, remained, and Mr. Hilbery thought himself competent to see that she did nothing further to compromise herself. As he bade her good morning next day he was aware that he knew nothing of what she was thinking, but, as he reflected with some bitterness, even this was an advance upon the ignorance of the previous mornings. He went to his study, wrote, tore up, and wrote again a letter to his wife, asking her to come back on account of domestic difficulties which he specified at first, but in a later draft more discreetly left unspecified. Even if she started the very moment that she got it, he reflected, she would not be home till Tuesday night, and he counted lugubriously the number of hours that he would have to spend in a position of detestable authority alone with his daughter. What was she doing now, he wondered, as he addressed the envelope to his wife. He could not control the telephone. He could not play the spy. She might be making any arrangements she chose. Yet the thought did not disturb him so much as the strange, unpleasant, illicit atmosphere of the whole scene with the young people the night before. His sense of discomfort was almost physical. Had he known it, Katharine was far enough withdrawn, both physically and spiritually, from the telephone. She sat in her room with the dictionaries spreading their wide leaves on the table before her, and all the pages which they had concealed for so many years arranged in a pile. She worked with the steady concentration that is produced by the successful effort to think down some unwelcome thought by means of another thought. Having absorbed the unwelcome thought, her mind went on with additional vigor, derived from the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!" she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly	were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!" she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than	Night And Day
They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:	No speaker	"Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my	of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy	possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the	trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated	hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a	to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore's, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The song of the future must transcend creed. The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is a nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew harder and less approachable. The English, whom he had laughed at or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; they had even thrown nets over his dreams. "My great mistake has	you. Let's meet again." "We will, in England, if I ever take home leave." "But I suppose you're not likely to do that yet." "Quite a chance. I have a scheme on now as a matter of fact." "Oh, that would be very nice." So it petered out. Ten days later Adela went off, by the same route as her dead friend. The final beat up before the monsoon had come. The country was stricken and blurred. Its houses, trees and fields were all modelled out of the same brown paste, and the sea at Bombay slid about like broth against the quays. Her last Indian adventure was with Antony, who followed her on to the boat and tried to blackmail her. She had been Mr. Fielding's mistress, Antony said. Perhaps Antony was discontented with his tip. She rang the cabin bell and had him turned out, but his statement created rather a scandal, and people did not speak to her much during the first part of the voyage. Through the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea she was left to herself, and to the dregs of Chandrapore. With Egypt the atmosphere altered. The clean sands, heaped on each side of the canal, seemed to wipe off everything that was difficult and equivocal, and even Port Said looked pure and charming in the light of a rose-grey morning. She went on shore there with an American missionary, they walked out to the Lesseps statue, they drank the tonic air of the Levant. "To what duties, Miss Quested, are you returning in your own country after your taste of the tropics?" the missionary asked. "Observe, I don't say to what do you turn, but to what do you _re_-turn. Every life ought to contain both a turn and a _re_-turn. This celebrated pioneer" (he pointed to the statue) "will make my question clear. He turns to the East, he _re_-turns to the West. You can see it from the cute position of his hands, one of which holds a string of sausages." The missionary looked at her humorously, in order to cover the emptiness of his mind. He had no idea what he meant by "turn" and "return," but he often used words in pairs, for the sake of moral brightness. "I see," she replied. Suddenly, in the Mediterranean clarity, she had seen. Her first duty on returning to England was to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore's, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The song of the future must transcend creed. The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is a nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew harder and less approachable. The English, whom he had laughed at or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; they had even thrown nets over his dreams. "My great mistake has been taking our rulers as a joke," he said to Hamidullah next day; who replied with a sigh: "It is far the wisest way to take them, but not possible in the long run. Sooner or later a disaster such as yours occurs, and reveals their secret thoughts about our character. If God himself descended from heaven into their club and said you were innocent, they would disbelieve him. Now you see why Mahmoud Ali and self waste so much time over intrigues and associate with creatures like Ram Chand." "I cannot endure committees. I shall go right away." "Where to? Turtons and Burtons, all are the same." "But not in an Indian state." "I believe the Politicals are obliged to have better manners. It amounts to no more." "I do want to get away from British India, even to a poor job. I think I could write poetry there. I wish I had lived in Babur's time and fought and written for him. Gone, gone, and not even any use to say" Gone, gone,' "for it weakens us while we say it. We need a king, Hamidullah; it would make our lives easier. As it is, we must try to appreciate these quaint Hindus. My notion now is to try for some post as doctor in one of their states." "Oh, that is going much too far." "It is not going as far as Mr. Ram Chand." "But the money, the money they will never pay an adequate salary, those savage Rajahs." "I shall never be rich anywhere, it is outside my character." "If you had been sensible and made Miss Quested pay" "I chose not to. Discussion of the past is useless," he said, with sudden sharpness of tone. "I have allowed her to keep her fortune and buy herself a husband in England, for which it will be very necessary. Don't mention the matter again." "Very well, but your life must continue a poor man's; no holidays in Kashmir for you yet, you must stick to your profession and rise to a highly paid post, not retire to a jungle-state and write poems. Educate your children, read the latest scientific periodicals, compel European doctors to respect you. Accept the consequences of your own actions like a man." Aziz winked at him slowly and said: "We are not in the law courts. There are many ways of being	him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help,	A Passage To India
"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"	Mr. James Harthouse	say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress.	"You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could	be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	for that once, a conscious polishing of but an ugly surface. He was silent for a moment; and then proceeded with a more self-possessed air, though with traces of vexation and disappointment that would not be polished out. "After what has been just now represented to me, in a manner I find it impossible to doubt I know of hardly any other source from which I could have accepted it so readily I feel bound to say to you, in whom the confidence you have mentioned has been reposed, that I cannot refuse to contemplate the possibility (however unexpected) of my seeing the lady no more. I am solely to blame for the thing having come to this and and, I cannot say," he added, rather hard up for a general peroration, "that I have any sanguine expectation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever." Sissy's face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was not finished. "You spoke," he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him again, "of your first object. I may assume that there is a second to be mentioned?" "Yes." "Will you oblige me by confiding it?" "Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	Hard Times
"Poor comfort!"	Emma	very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would	like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred	Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is	in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or	used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof." "Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--" "Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction." "As to that--I do not--" "Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses." "There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--" he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it	life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?" "Yes--" (rather hesitatingly) "--I believe I do." "You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off." "I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend." He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank Churchill. "Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly." "You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof." "Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--" "Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction." "As to that--I do not--" "Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses." "There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--" he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be." "I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve--I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved." "It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he. "Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person." "Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself;	"Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues." They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--" "But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life." "I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow." "Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her." "May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all." "You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?" "Yes--" (rather hesitatingly) "--I believe I do." "You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off." "I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend." He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank Churchill. "Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly." "You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof." "Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--" "Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction." "As to that--I do not--" "Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses." "There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--" he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be." "I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve--I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved." "It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he. "Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person." "Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any body's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her--not the least--except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal." He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate--his feelings warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr. Elton's house, which, as well as the church, he would go and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault with. No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house. There must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a blockhead who wanted more. Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he was talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper's room, or a bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would willingly	merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow." "Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her." "May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all." "You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?" "Yes--" (rather hesitatingly) "--I believe I do." "You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off." "I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend." He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank Churchill. "Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly." "You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof." "Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--" "Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction." "As to that--I do not--" "Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses." "There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--" he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be." "I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve--I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved." "It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he. "Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person." "Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any body's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her--not the least--except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal." He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his notions,	Emma
he added.	No speaker	ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I	was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep	very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I	as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him	reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing	piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully. "It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been," he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last she supposed was the cause of William s sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual,	of urbane contentment indeed of delicious expansion to one of uneasiness and expectation. The dinner was brought in, and had to be set by the fire to keep hot. It was now a quarter of an hour beyond the specified time. He bethought him of a piece of news which had depressed him in the earlier part of the day. Owing to the illness of one of his fellow-clerks, it was likely that he would get no holiday until later in the year, which would mean the postponement of their marriage. But this possibility, after all, was not so disagreeable as the probability which forced itself upon him with every tick of the clock that Katharine had completely forgotten her engagement. Such things had happened less frequently since Christmas, but what if they were going to begin to happen again? What if their marriage should turn out, as she had said, a farce? He acquitted her of any wish to hurt him wantonly, but there was something in her character which made it impossible for her to help hurting people. Was she cold? Was she self-absorbed? He tried to fit her with each of these descriptions, but he had to own that she puzzled him. "There are so many things that she doesn t understand," he reflected, glancing at the letter to Cassandra which he had begun and laid aside. What prevented him from finishing the letter which he had so much enjoyed beginning? The reason was that Katharine might, at any moment, enter the room. The thought, implying his bondage to her, irritated him acutely. It occurred to him that he would leave the letter lying open for her to see, and he would take the opportunity of telling her that he had sent his play to Cassandra for her to criticize. Possibly, but not by any means certainly, this would annoy her and as he reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates. "I ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully. "It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been," he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last she supposed was the cause of William s sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual, had now a composure which seemed somehow to place it at a distance, like a face seen talking to some one else behind glass. He wrote on, without raising his eyes. She would have spoken, but could not bring herself to ask him for signs of affection which she had no right to claim. The conviction that he was thus strange to her filled her with despondency, and illustrated quite beyond doubt the infinite loneliness of human beings. She had never felt the truth of this so strongly before. She looked away into the fire; it seemed to her that even physically they were now scarcely within speaking distance; and spiritually there was certainly no human being with whom she could claim comradeship; no dream that satisfied her as she was used to be satisfied; nothing remained in whose reality she could believe, save those abstract ideas figures, laws, stars, facts, which she could hardly hold to for lack of knowledge and a kind of shame. When Rodney owned to himself the folly of this prolonged silence, and the meanness of such devices, and looked up ready to seek some excuse for a good laugh, or opening for a confession, he was disconcerted by what he saw. Katharine seemed equally oblivious of what was bad or of what was good in him. Her expression suggested concentration upon something entirely remote from her surroundings. The carelessness of her attitude seemed to him rather masculine than feminine. His impulse to break up the constraint was chilled, and once more the exasperating sense of his own impotency returned to him. He could not help contrasting Katharine with his vision of the engaging, whimsical Cassandra; Katharine undemonstrative, inconsiderate, silent, and yet so notable that he could never do without her good opinion. She veered round upon him a moment later, as if, when her train of thought was ended, she became aware of his presence. "Have you finished your letter?" she asked. He thought he heard faint amusement in her tone, but not a trace of jealousy. "No, I m not going to write any more to-night," he said. "I m not in the mood for it for some reason. I can t say what I want to say." "Cassandra won t know if it s well written or badly written," Katharine remarked. "I m not so sure about that. I should say she	this would annoy her and as he reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates. "I ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully. "It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been," he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last she supposed was the cause of William s sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual, had now a composure which seemed somehow to place it at a distance, like a face seen talking to some one else behind	Night And Day
Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.	No speaker	wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what	he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little	as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don	make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm,	had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off	he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay. For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another. Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun. He was holding himself up by grasping the bough of a tree, and gazing wildly at Mike and his brutal-looking friends; but they were looking in the direction of the farm as they passed, and they did not see him. Then the agonising pain in his head seemed to rob him of the power to think, and he sank back among the ferns. Don had some consciousness of hearing voices,	the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if he's your friend, that's enough." They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions. Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold. The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing. The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night. His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris' _pah_, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem's fancies as to why they were being kept. Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay. For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another. Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun. He was holding himself up by grasping the bough of a tree, and gazing wildly at Mike and his brutal-looking friends; but they were looking in the direction of the farm as they passed, and they did not see him. Then the agonising pain in his head seemed to rob him of the power to think, and he sank back among the ferns. Don had some consciousness of hearing voices, and of feeling hands touching him; but it was all during a time of confusion, and when he looked round again with the power to think, he was facing a tiny unglazed window, the shutter which was used to close it standing below. He was lying on a rough bed formed of sacking spread over dried fern leaves, and the shed he was in had for furniture a rough table formed by nailing a couple of pieces of board across a tub, another tub with part of the side sawn out formed an armchair; and the walls were ornamented with bunches of seeds tied up and hung there for preservation, a saddle and bridle, and some garden tools neatly arranged in a corner. Don lay wondering what it all meant, his eyes resting longest upon the open window, through which he could see the glorious sunshine, and the leaves moving in the gentle breeze. He felt very happy and comfortable, but when he tried to raise his head the effort was in vain, and this set him wondering again, till he closed his eyes and lay thinking. Suddenly he unclosed them again to lie listening, feeling the while that he had been asleep, for close beside him there was some one whistling in a very low tone--quite a whisper of a whistle--a familiar old Somersetshire melody, which seemed to carry him back to the sugar yard at Bristol, where he had heard Jem whistle that tune a score of times. This set him thinking of home, his mother, and Cousin Kitty. Then of stern-looking Uncle Josiah, who, after all, did not seem to have been unkind. "Poor Mas' Don! Will he ever get well again?" a voice whispered close to his ear. "Jem!" "Oh, Mas' Don! Oh! Oh! Oh! Thank the great Lord o' mussy. Amen! Amen! Amen!" There was the sound of some one going down heavily upon his knees, a pair of clasped hands rested on Don's breast; and, as he turned his eyes sidewise, he could see the top of Jem's head as the bed shook, and there was the sound of some one sobbing violently, but in a choking, smothered way. "Jem! Is that you? What's the matter?" whispered Don feebly. "And he says, `What's the matter?'" cried Jem, raising his head, and bending over Don. "Dear lad, dear lad; how are you now?" "Quite well,	face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay. For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another. Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun. He was holding himself up by grasping the bough	Don Lavington
And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,	No speaker	of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed,	a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen	She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You	would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar	I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?" She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar Road?" Nureddin looked down. Aziz continued: "Your grandfather belongs to another generation, and I respect and love the old gentleman, as you know. I say nothing against him, only that it is wrong for us, because we are young. I want you to promise me Nureddin, are you listening? not to believe in Evil Spirits, and if I die (for my health grows very weak) to bring up my three children to disbelieve in them too." Nureddin smiled, and a suitable answer rose to his pretty lips, but before he could make it the car arrived, and his grandfather took	stormed, shouted, howled, and only the experienced observer could tell that he was not angry, did not much want the files, and only made a row because it was the custom. Servants, quite understanding, ran slowly in circles, carrying hurricane lamps. Krishna the earth, Krishna the stars replied, until the Englishman was appeased by their echoes, fined the absent peon eight annas, and sat down to his arrears in the next room. "Will you play Patience with your future mother-in-law, dear Adela, or does it seem too tame?" "I should like to I don't feel a bit excited I'm just glad it's settled up at last, but I'm not conscious of vast changes. We are all three the same people still." "That's much the best feeling to have." She dealt out the first row of "demon." "I suppose so," said the girl thoughtfully. "I feared at Mr. Fielding's that it might be settled the other way . . . black knave on a red queen. . . ." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said: "You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?" She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar Road?" Nureddin looked down. Aziz continued: "Your grandfather belongs to another generation, and I respect and love the old gentleman, as you know. I say nothing against him, only that it is wrong for us, because we are young. I want you to promise me Nureddin, are you listening? not to believe in Evil Spirits, and if I die (for my health grows very weak) to bring up my three children to disbelieve in them too." Nureddin smiled, and a suitable answer rose to his pretty lips, but before he could make it the car arrived, and his grandfather took him away. The game of Patience up in the civil lines went on longer than this. Mrs. Moore continued to murmur "Red ten on a black knave," Miss Quested to assist her, and to intersperse among the intricacies of the play details about the hyena, the engagement, the Maharani of Mudkul, the Bhattacharyas, and the day generally, whose rough desiccated surface acquired as it receded a definite outline, as India itself might, could it be viewed from the moon. Presently the players went to bed, but not before other people had woken up elsewhere, people whose emotions they could not share, and whose existence they ignored. Never tranquil, never perfectly dark, the night wore itself away, distinguished from other nights by two or three blasts of wind, which seemed to fall perpendicularly out of the sky and to bounce back into it, hard and compact, leaving no freshness behind them: the hot weather was approaching. CHAPTER IX Aziz fell ill as he foretold slightly ill. Three days later he lay abed in his bungalow, pretending to be very ill. It was a touch of fever, which he would have neglected if there was anything important at the hospital. Now and	latter. The Collector had favoured the Hindus, until he suspected that they had artificially bent the tree nearer the ground. They said it sagged naturally. Measurements, plans, an official visit to the spot. But Ronny had not disliked his day, for it proved that the British were necessary to India; there would certainly have been bloodshed without them. His voice grew complacent again; he was here not to be pleasant but to keep the peace, and now that Adela had promised to be his wife, she was sure to understand. "What does our old gentleman of the car think?" she asked, and her negligent tone was exactly what he desired. "Our old gentleman is helpful and sound, as he always is over public affairs. You've seen in him our show Indian." "Have I really?" "I'm afraid so. Incredible, aren't they, even the best of them? They're all they all forget their back collar studs sooner or later. You've had to do with three sets of Indians to-day, the Bhattacharyas, Aziz, and this chap, and it really isn't a coincidence that they've all let you down." "I like Aziz, Aziz is my real friend," Mrs. Moore interposed. "When the animal runs into us the Nawab loses his head, deserts his unfortunate chauffeur, intrudes upon Miss Derek . . . no great crimes, no great crimes, but no white man would have done it." "What animal?" "Oh, we had a small accident on the Marabar road. Adela thinks it was a hyena." "An accident?" she cried. "Nothing; no one hurt. Our excellent host awoke much rattled from his dreams, appeared to think it was our fault, and chanted exactly, exactly." Mrs. Moore shivered, "A ghost!" But the idea of a ghost scarcely passed her lips. The young people did not take it up, being occupied with their own outlooks, and deprived of support it perished, or was reabsorbed into the part of the mind that seldom speaks. "Yes, nothing criminal," Ronny summed up, "but there's the native, and there's one of the reasons why we don't admit him to our clubs, and how a decent girl like Miss Derek can take service under natives puzzles me. . . . But I must get on with my work. Krishna!" Krishna was the peon who should have brought the files from his office. He had not turned up, and a terrific row ensued. Ronny stormed, shouted, howled, and only the experienced observer could tell that he was not angry, did not much want the files, and only made a row because it was the custom. Servants, quite understanding, ran slowly in circles, carrying hurricane lamps. Krishna the earth, Krishna the stars replied, until the Englishman was appeased by their echoes, fined the absent peon eight annas, and sat down to his arrears in the next room. "Will you play Patience with your future mother-in-law, dear Adela, or does it seem too tame?" "I should like to I don't feel a bit excited I'm just glad it's settled up at last, but I'm not conscious of vast changes. We are all three the same people still." "That's much the best feeling to have." She dealt out the first row of "demon." "I suppose so," said the girl thoughtfully. "I feared at Mr. Fielding's that it might be settled the other way . . . black knave on a red queen. . . ." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said: "You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?" She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar Road?" Nureddin looked down. Aziz continued: "Your grandfather belongs to another generation, and I respect and love the old gentleman, as you know. I say nothing against him, only that it is wrong for us, because we are young. I want you to promise me Nureddin, are you listening? not to believe in Evil Spirits, and if I die (for my health grows very weak) to bring up my three children to disbelieve in them too." Nureddin smiled, and a suitable answer rose to his pretty lips, but before he could make it the car arrived, and his grandfather took him away. The game of Patience up in the civil lines went on longer than this. Mrs. Moore continued to murmur "Red ten on a black knave," Miss Quested to assist her, and to intersperse among the intricacies of the play details about the hyena, the engagement, the Maharani of Mudkul, the Bhattacharyas, and the day generally, whose rough desiccated surface acquired as it receded a definite outline, as India itself might, could it be viewed from the moon. Presently the players went to bed, but not before other people had woken up elsewhere, people whose emotions they could not share, and whose existence they ignored. Never tranquil, never perfectly dark, the night wore itself away, distinguished from other nights by two or three blasts of wind, which seemed to fall perpendicularly out of the sky and to bounce back into it, hard and compact, leaving no freshness behind them: the hot weather was approaching. CHAPTER IX Aziz fell ill as he foretold slightly ill. Three days later he lay abed in his bungalow, pretending to be very ill. It was a touch of fever, which he would have neglected if there was anything important at the hospital. Now and then he groaned and thought he should die, but did not think so for long, and a very little diverted him. It was Sunday, always an equivocal day in the East, and an excuse for slacking. He could hear church bells as he drowsed, both from the civil station and from the missionaries out beyond the slaughter house different bells and rung with different intent, for one set was calling firmly to Anglo-India, and the other feebly to mankind. He did not object to the first set; the other he ignored, knowing their inefficiency. Old Mr. Graysford and young Mr. Sorley made converts during a famine, because they distributed food; but when times improved they were naturally left alone again, and though surprised and aggrieved each time this happened, they never learnt wisdom. "No Englishman understands us except Mr. Fielding," he thought; "but how shall I see him again? If he entered this room the disgrace of it would kill me." He called to Hassan to clear up, but Hassan, who was testing his wages by ringing them on the step of the verandah, found it possible not to hear him; heard and didn't hear, just as Aziz had called and hadn't called. "That's India all over . . . how like us . . . there we are . . ." He dozed again, and his thoughts wandered over the varied surface of life. Gradually they steadied upon a certain spot the Bottomless Pit according to missionaries, but he had never regarded it as more than a dimple. Yes, he did want to spend an evening with some girls, singing and all that, the vague jollity that would culminate in voluptuousness. Yes, that was what he did want. How could it be managed? If Major Callendar had been an Indian, he would have remembered what young men are, and granted two or three days' leave to Calcutta without asking questions. But the Major assumed either that his subordinates were made of ice, or that they repaired to the Chandrapore bazaars disgusting ideas both. It was only Mr. Fielding who "Hassan!" The servant came running. "Look at those flies, brother;" and he pointed to the horrible mass that hung from the ceiling. The nucleus was a wire which had been inserted as a homage to electricity. Electricity had paid no attention, and a colony of eye-flies had come instead and	why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?" She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar Road?" Nureddin looked down. Aziz continued: "Your grandfather belongs to another generation, and I respect and love the old gentleman, as you know. I say nothing against him, only that it is wrong for us, because we are young. I want you to promise me Nureddin, are you listening? not to believe in Evil Spirits, and if I die (for my health grows very weak) to bring up my three children to disbelieve in them too." Nureddin smiled, and a suitable answer rose to his pretty lips, but before he could make it the car arrived, and his grandfather took him away. The game of Patience up in the civil lines went on longer than this. Mrs. Moore continued to murmur "Red ten on a black knave," Miss Quested to assist her, and to intersperse among the intricacies of the play details about the hyena, the engagement, the Maharani of Mudkul, the Bhattacharyas, and the day generally, whose rough desiccated surface acquired as it receded a definite outline, as India itself might, could it be viewed from the moon. Presently the players went to bed, but not before other people had woken up elsewhere, people whose emotions they could not share, and whose existence they ignored. Never tranquil, never perfectly dark, the night wore itself away, distinguished from other nights by two or three blasts of wind, which seemed to fall perpendicularly out of the sky and to bounce back	A Passage To India
"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."	Harriet Smith	business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What	the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is	had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is	Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on	could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have	together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever. With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight." "I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?" "He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd." "Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable." "Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!" "Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died,	not want. It was quite a different sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing. Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy what she liked--but she could never believe that in the same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth. Harriet had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther. Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great part of the conversation--and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe the many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her talkativeness--amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of Mrs. Martin's having "_two_ parlours, two very good parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it, it should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to drink tea:--a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people." For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever. With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight." "I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?" "He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd." "Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable." "Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!" "Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet." "To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year." "I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does marry;--I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife--for though his sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading you." "Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any body can do." "You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would have you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without education." "To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body but what had had some education--and been very well brought up. However, I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours--and I am sure I shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for	as Mrs. Goddard's drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it, it should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to drink tea:--a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people." For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever. With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight." "I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?" "He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd." "Only	Emma
looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.	No speaker	"I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you	household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera	their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see	lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp	at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their	practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more general tone to the conversation. Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority felt. Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to play the	who received letters which should never have been written; and still other stories, grave and gay, till Mrs. Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men seriously was apparently forgotten. Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take the hour's rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her, Robert begged her pardon for the impatience he called it rudeness with which he had received her well-meant caution. "You made one mistake, Ad le," he said, with a light smile; "there is no earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You should have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice might then have carried some weight and given me subject for some reflection. _Au revoir_. But you look tired," he added, solicitously. "Would you like a cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy with a drop of Angostura." She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty S vres cup, with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer. She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a _bon gar on_, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward "the house." The lovers were just entering the grounds of the _pension_. They were leaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more general tone to the conversation. Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority felt. Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin's colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from "Zampa," and at the earnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant." "_Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_" shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first time that summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected; and his decrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot fortunately offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and hurled against the twins in that one impetuous outburst. Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one present had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the city. A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The mother played her accompaniments and at the same time watched her daughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have had no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had been properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk tights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially crimped, stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses were full of grace, and her little black-shod toes twinkled as they shot out and upward with a rapidity and suddenness which were bewildering. But there was no reason why every one should not dance. Madame Ratignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the others. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing an expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was keeping up her music on account of the children, she said; because she and her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home and making it attractive. Almost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to separate during the brief period when one or the other should be whirling around the room in the arms of a man. They might	grounds of the _pension_. They were leaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more general tone to the conversation. Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority felt. Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin's colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from "Zampa," and at the earnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant." "_Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_" shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he was not listening to these gracious performances for	The Awakening
"And how happy we both were."	Mrs. Moore	and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin	rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall	to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not	day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, "Oh, what more can I do for her?" and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur." "Why like him?" she enquired, rising. "Because my ancestors came down with him from	it is tainted with the sense of possession. It was only when Mrs. Moore or Fielding was near him that he saw further, and knew that it is more blessed to receive than to give. These two had strange and beautiful effects on him they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever; he loved them so much that giving and receiving became one. He loved them even better than the Hamidullahs, because he had surmounted obstacles to meet them, and this stimulates a generous mind. Their images remained somewhere in his soul up to his dying day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, "Oh, what more can I do for her?" and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur." "Why like him?" she enquired, rising. "Because my ancestors came down with him from Afghanistan. They joined him at Herat. He also had often no more elephants than one, none sometimes, but he never ceased showing hospitality. When he fought or hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time among hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospitality and pleasure, and if there was only a little food, he would have it arranged nicely, and if only one musical instrument, he would compel it to play a beautiful tune. I take him as my ideal. He is the poor gentleman, and he became a great king." "I thought	that English people never stop eating, and that he had better nourish them every two hours until a solid meal was ready. "How very well it is all arranged." "That you shall tell me when I return to Chandrapore. Whatever disgraces I bring upon myself, you remain my guests." He spoke gravely now. They were dependent on him for a few hours, and he felt grateful to them for placing themselves in such a position. All was well so far; the elephant held a fresh cut bough to her lips, the tonga shafts stuck up into the air, the kitchen-boy peeled potatoes, Hassan shouted, and Mohammed Latif stood as he ought, with a peeled switch in his hand. The expedition was a success, and it was Indian; an obscure young man had been allowed to show courtesy to visitors from another country, which is what all Indians long to do even cynics like Mahmoud Ali but they never have the chance. Hospitality had been achieved, they were "his" guests; his honour was involved in their happiness, and any discomfort they endured would tear his own soul. Like most Orientals, Aziz overrated hospitality, mistaking it for intimacy, and not seeing that it is tainted with the sense of possession. It was only when Mrs. Moore or Fielding was near him that he saw further, and knew that it is more blessed to receive than to give. These two had strange and beautiful effects on him they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever; he loved them so much that giving and receiving became one. He loved them even better than the Hamidullahs, because he had surmounted obstacles to meet them, and this stimulates a generous mind. Their images remained somewhere in his soul up to his dying day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, "Oh, what more can I do for her?" and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur." "Why like him?" she enquired, rising. "Because my ancestors came down with him from Afghanistan. They joined him at Herat. He also had often no more elephants than one, none sometimes, but he never ceased showing hospitality. When he fought or hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time among hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospitality and pleasure, and if there was only a little food, he would have it arranged nicely, and if only one musical instrument, he would compel it to play a beautiful tune. I take him as my ideal. He is the poor gentleman, and he became a great king." "I thought another Emperor is your favourite I forget the name you mentioned him at Mr. Fielding's: what my book calls Aurangzebe." "Alamgir? Oh yes, he was of course the more pious. But Babur never in his whole life did he betray a friend, so I can only think of him this morning. And you know how he died? He laid down his life for his son. A death far more difficult than battle. They were caught in the heat. They should have gone back to Kabul for the bad weather, but could not for reasons of state, and at Agra Humayun fell sick. Babur walked round the bed three times, and said," I have borne it away,' "and he did bear it away; the fever left his son and came to him instead, and he died. That is why I prefer Babur to Alamgir. I ought not to do so, but I do. However, I mustn't delay you. I see you are ready to start." "Not at all," she said, sitting down by Mrs. Moore again. "We enjoy talk like this very much." For at last he was talking about what he knew and felt, talking as he had in Fielding's	some rubbish about protective mimicry. Nothing was explained, and yet there was no romance. Films of heat, radiated from the Kawa Dol precipices, increased the confusion. They came at irregular intervals and moved capriciously. A patch of field would jump as if it was being fried, and then lie quiet. As they drew closer the radiation stopped. The elephant walked straight at the Kawa Dol as if she would knock for admission with her forehead, then swerved, and followed a path round its base. The stones plunged straight into the earth, like cliffs into the sea, and while Miss Quested was remarking on this, and saying that it was striking, the plain quietly disappeared, peeled off, so to speak, and nothing was to be seen on either side but the granite, very dead and quiet. The sky dominated as usual, but seemed unhealthily near, adhering like a ceiling to the summits of the precipices. It was as if the contents of the corridor had never been changed. Occupied by his own munificence, Aziz noticed nothing. His guests noticed a little. They did not feel that it was an attractive place or quite worth visiting, and wished it could have turned into some Mohammedan object, such as a mosque, which their host would have appreciated and explained. His ignorance became evident, and was really rather a drawback. In spite of his gay, confident talk, he had no notion how to treat this particular aspect of India; he was lost in it without Professor Godbole, like themselves. The corridor narrowed, then widened into a sort of tray. Here, more or less, was their goal. A ruined tank held a little water which would do for the animals, and close above the mud was punched a black hole the first of the caves. Three hills encircled the tray. Two of them pumped out heat busily, but the third was in shadow, and here they camped. "A horrid, stuffy place really," murmured Mrs. Moore to herself. "How quick your servants are!" Miss Quested exclaimed. For a cloth had already been laid, with a vase of artificial flowers in its centre, and Mahmoud Ali's butler offered them poached eggs and tea for the second time. "I thought we would eat this before our caves, and breakfast after." "Isn't this breakfast?" "This breakfast? Did you think I should treat you so strangely?" He had been warned that English people never stop eating, and that he had better nourish them every two hours until a solid meal was ready. "How very well it is all arranged." "That you shall tell me when I return to Chandrapore. Whatever disgraces I bring upon myself, you remain my guests." He spoke gravely now. They were dependent on him for a few hours, and he felt grateful to them for placing themselves in such a position. All was well so far; the elephant held a fresh cut bough to her lips, the tonga shafts stuck up into the air, the kitchen-boy peeled potatoes, Hassan shouted, and Mohammed Latif stood as he ought, with a peeled switch in his hand. The expedition was a success, and it was Indian; an obscure young man had been allowed to show courtesy to visitors from another country, which is what all Indians long to do even cynics like Mahmoud Ali but they never have the chance. Hospitality had been achieved, they were "his" guests; his honour was involved in their happiness, and any discomfort they endured would tear his own soul. Like most Orientals, Aziz overrated hospitality, mistaking it for intimacy, and not seeing that it is tainted with the sense of possession. It was only when Mrs. Moore or Fielding was near him that he saw further, and knew that it is more blessed to receive than to give. These two had strange and beautiful effects on him they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever; he loved them so much that giving and receiving became one. He loved them even better than the Hamidullahs, because he had surmounted obstacles to meet them, and this stimulates a generous mind. Their images remained somewhere in his soul up to his dying day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, "Oh, what more can I do for her?" and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur." "Why like him?" she enquired, rising. "Because my ancestors came down with him from Afghanistan. They joined him at Herat. He also had often no more elephants than one, none sometimes, but he never ceased showing hospitality. When he fought or hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time among hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospitality and pleasure, and if there was only a little food, he would have it arranged nicely, and if only one musical instrument, he would compel it to play a beautiful tune. I take him as my ideal. He is the poor gentleman, and he became a great king." "I thought another Emperor is your favourite I forget the name you mentioned him at Mr. Fielding's: what my book calls Aurangzebe." "Alamgir? Oh yes, he was of course the more pious. But Babur never in his whole life did he betray a friend, so I can only think of him this morning. And you know how he died? He laid down his life for his son. A death far more difficult than battle. They were caught in the heat. They should have gone back to Kabul for the bad weather, but could not for reasons of state, and at Agra Humayun fell sick. Babur walked round the bed three times, and said," I have borne it away,' "and he did bear it away; the fever left his son and came to him instead, and he died. That is why I prefer Babur to Alamgir. I ought not to do so, but I do. However, I mustn't delay you. I see you are ready to start." "Not at all," she said, sitting down by Mrs. Moore again. "We enjoy talk like this very much." For at last he was talking about what he knew and felt, talking as he had in Fielding's garden-house; he was again the Oriental guide whom they appreciated. "I always enjoy conversing about the Moguls. It is the chief pleasure I know. You see, those first six emperors were all most wonderful men, and as soon as one of them is mentioned, no matter which, I forget everything else in the world except the other five. You could not find six such kings in all the countries of the earth, not, I mean, coming one after the other father, son." "Tell us something about Akbar." "Ah, you have heard the name of Akbar. Good. Hamidullah whom you shall meet will tell you that Akbar is the greatest of all. I say," Yes, Akbar is very wonderful, but half a Hindu; he was not a true Moslem, "which makes Hamidullah cry," No more was Babur, he drank wine.' "But Babur always repented afterwards, which makes the entire difference, and Akbar never repented of the new religion he invented instead of the Holy Koran." "But wasn't Akbar's new religion very fine? It was to embrace the whole of India." "Miss Quested, fine but foolish. You keep your religion, I mine. That is the best. Nothing embraces the whole of India, nothing, nothing, and that was Akbar's mistake." "Oh, do you feel that, Dr. Aziz?" she said thoughtfully. "I hope you're not right. There will have to be something universal in this country I don't say religion, for I'm not religious, but something, or how else are barriers to be broken down?" She was only recommending the universal brotherhood he sometimes dreamed of, but as soon as it was put into prose it became untrue. "Take my own case," she continued it was indeed her own case that had animated her. "I don't know whether you happen to have heard, but I'm going to marry Mr. Heaslop." "On which my heartiest congratulations." "Mrs. Moore, may I put our difficulty to Dr. Aziz I mean our Anglo-Indian one?" "It is your difficulty, not mine, my dear." "Ah, that's true. Well, by marrying Mr. Heaslop, I shall become what is known as an Anglo-Indian." He held up his hand in protest. "Impossible. Take back such a terrible remark." "But I shall; it's inevitable. I can't avoid the label. What I do hope to avoid is the mentality. Women like" She stopped, not quite liking to mention names; she would boldly have said "Mrs.	was Indian; an obscure young man had been allowed to show courtesy to visitors from another country, which is what all Indians long to do even cynics like Mahmoud Ali but they never have the chance. Hospitality had been achieved, they were "his" guests; his honour was involved in their happiness, and any discomfort they endured would tear his own soul. Like most Orientals, Aziz overrated hospitality, mistaking it for intimacy, and not seeing that it is tainted with the sense of possession. It was only when Mrs. Moore or Fielding was near him that he saw further, and knew that it is more blessed to receive than to give. These two had strange and beautiful effects on him they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever; he loved them so much that giving and receiving became one. He loved them even better than the Hamidullahs, because he had surmounted obstacles to meet them, and this stimulates a generous mind. Their images remained somewhere in his soul up to his dying day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, "Oh, what more can I do for her?" and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur." "Why like him?" she enquired, rising. "Because my ancestors came down with him from Afghanistan. They joined him at Herat. He also had often no more elephants than one, none sometimes, but he never ceased showing hospitality. When he fought or hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time among hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospitality and pleasure, and if there was only a little food, he would have it arranged nicely, and if only one musical instrument, he would compel it to play a beautiful tune. I take him as my ideal. He is the poor gentleman, and he became a great king." "I thought another Emperor is your favourite I	A Passage To India
"Paul--Paul----"	Paul	answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer.	I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert	light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words	I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward. I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back. I do not mention the dead	I am coming. I will call out as soon as I can so that they will recognize me. I will stay lying in front of the trench until they answer me. The first star. The front remains quiet. I breathe deeply and talk to myself in my excitement: "No foolishness now, Paul--Quiet, Paul, quiet--then you will be saved, Paul." When I use my Christian name it works as though someone else spoke to me, it has more power. The darkness grows. My excitement subsides, I wait cautiously until the first rocket goes up. Then I crawl out of the shell-hole. I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward. I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back. I do not mention the dead printer. But by next morning I can keep it to myself no longer. I must tell Kat and Albert. They both try to calm me. "You can't do anything about it. What else could you have done? That is what you are here for." I listen to them and feel comforted, reassured by their presence. It was mere drivelling nonsense that I talked out there in the shell-hole. "Look there for instance," points Kat. On the fire-step stand some snipers. They rest their rifles with telescopic sights on the parapet and watch the enemy front. Once and again a shot	of it, comrade, I will fight against this, that has struck us both down; from you, taken life--and from me--? Life also. I promise you, comrade. It shall never happen again." The sun strikes low. I am stupefied with exhaustion and hunger. Yesterday is like a fog to me, there is no hope of getting out of this yet. I fall into a doze and do not at first realize that evening is approaching. The twilight comes. It seems to me to come quickly now. One hour more. If it were summer, it would be three hours more. One hour more. Now suddenly I begin to tremble; something might happen in the interval. I think no more of the dead man, he is of no consequence to me now. With one bound the lust to live flares up again and everything that has filled my thoughts goes down before it. Now, merely to avert any ill-luck, I babble mechanically: "I will fulfil everything, fulfil everything I have promised you----" but already I know that I shall not do so. Suddenly it occurs to me that my own comrades may fire on me as I creep up; they do not know I am coming. I will call out as soon as I can so that they will recognize me. I will stay lying in front of the trench until they answer me. The first star. The front remains quiet. I breathe deeply and talk to myself in my excitement: "No foolishness now, Paul--Quiet, Paul, quiet--then you will be saved, Paul." When I use my Christian name it works as though someone else spoke to me, it has more power. The darkness grows. My excitement subsides, I wait cautiously until the first rocket goes up. Then I crawl out of the shell-hole. I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward. I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back. I do not mention the dead printer. But by next morning I can keep it to myself no longer. I must tell Kat and Albert. They both try to calm me. "You can't do anything about it. What else could you have done? That is what you are here for." I listen to them and feel comforted, reassured by their presence. It was mere drivelling nonsense that I talked out there in the shell-hole. "Look there for instance," points Kat. On the fire-step stand some snipers. They rest their rifles with telescopic sights on the parapet and watch the enemy front. Once and again a shot cracks out. Then we hear the cry: "That's found a billet!" "Did you see how he leapt in the air?" Sergeant Oellrich turns round proudly and scores his point. He heads the shooting list for to-day with three unquestionable hits. "What do you say to that?" asks Kat. I nod. "If he keeps that up he will get a little coloured bird for his buttonhole by this evening," says Albert. "Or rather he will soon be made acting-sergeant-major," says Kat. We look at one another. "I would not do it," I say. "All the same," says Kat, "it's very good for you to see it just now." Sergeant Oellrich returns to the fire-step. The muzzle of his rifle searches to and fro. "You don't need to lose any more sleep over your affair," nods Albert. And now I hardly understand it myself any more. "It was only because I had to lie there with him so long," I say. "After all, war is war." Oellrich's rifle cracks out sharp and dry. CHAPTER X We have dropped in for a good job. Eight of us have to guard a village that has been abandoned because it is being shelled too heavily.	will always come back and stand before me. Irresolutely I take the wallet in my hand. It slips out of my hand and falls open. Some pictures and letters drop out. I gather them up and want to put them back again, but the strain I am under, the uncertainty, the hunger, the danger, these hours with the dead man have confused me, I want to hasten the relief, to intensify and to end the torture, as one strikes an unendurably painful hand against the trunk of a tree, regardless of everything. There are portraits of a woman and a little girl, small amateur photographs taken against an ivy-clad wall. Along with them are letters. I take them out and try to read them. Most of it I do not understand, it is so hard to decipher and I know scarcely any French. But each word I translate pierces me like a shot in the chest;--like a stab in the chest. My brain is taxed beyond endurance. But I realize this much, that I will never dare to write to these people as I intended. Impossible. I look at the portraits once more; they are clearly not rich people. I might send them money anonymously if I earn anything later on. I seize upon that, it is at least something to hold on to. This dead man is bound up with my life, therefore I must do everything, promise everything, in order to save myself; I swear blindly that I mean to live only for his sake and his family, with wet lips I try to placate him--and deep down in me lies the hope that I may buy myself off in this way and perhaps even yet get out of this; it is a little stratagem: if only I am allowed to escape, then I will see to it. So I open the book and read slowly:--Gerard Duval, compositor. With the dead man's pencil I write the address on an envelope, then swiftly thrust everything back into his tunic. I have killed the printer, Gerard Duval. I must be a printer, I think confusedly, be a printer, printer---- * * By afternoon I am calmer. My fear was groundless. The name troubles me no more. The madness passes. "Comrade," I say to the dead man, but I say it calmly, "To-day you, to-morrow me. But if I come out of it, comrade, I will fight against this, that has struck us both down; from you, taken life--and from me--? Life also. I promise you, comrade. It shall never happen again." The sun strikes low. I am stupefied with exhaustion and hunger. Yesterday is like a fog to me, there is no hope of getting out of this yet. I fall into a doze and do not at first realize that evening is approaching. The twilight comes. It seems to me to come quickly now. One hour more. If it were summer, it would be three hours more. One hour more. Now suddenly I begin to tremble; something might happen in the interval. I think no more of the dead man, he is of no consequence to me now. With one bound the lust to live flares up again and everything that has filled my thoughts goes down before it. Now, merely to avert any ill-luck, I babble mechanically: "I will fulfil everything, fulfil everything I have promised you----" but already I know that I shall not do so. Suddenly it occurs to me that my own comrades may fire on me as I creep up; they do not know I am coming. I will call out as soon as I can so that they will recognize me. I will stay lying in front of the trench until they answer me. The first star. The front remains quiet. I breathe deeply and talk to myself in my excitement: "No foolishness now, Paul--Quiet, Paul, quiet--then you will be saved, Paul." When I use my Christian name it works as though someone else spoke to me, it has more power. The darkness grows. My excitement subsides, I wait cautiously until the first rocket goes up. Then I crawl out of the shell-hole. I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward. I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back. I do not mention the dead printer. But by next morning I can keep it to myself no longer. I must tell Kat and Albert. They both try to calm me. "You can't do anything about it. What else could you have done? That is what you are here for." I listen to them and feel comforted, reassured by their presence. It was mere drivelling nonsense that I talked out there in the shell-hole. "Look there for instance," points Kat. On the fire-step stand some snipers. They rest their rifles with telescopic sights on the parapet and watch the enemy front. Once and again a shot cracks out. Then we hear the cry: "That's found a billet!" "Did you see how he leapt in the air?" Sergeant Oellrich turns round proudly and scores his point. He heads the shooting list for to-day with three unquestionable hits. "What do you say to that?" asks Kat. I nod. "If he keeps that up he will get a little coloured bird for his buttonhole by this evening," says Albert. "Or rather he will soon be made acting-sergeant-major," says Kat. We look at one another. "I would not do it," I say. "All the same," says Kat, "it's very good for you to see it just now." Sergeant Oellrich returns to the fire-step. The muzzle of his rifle searches to and fro. "You don't need to lose any more sleep over your affair," nods Albert. And now I hardly understand it myself any more. "It was only because I had to lie there with him so long," I say. "After all, war is war." Oellrich's rifle cracks out sharp and dry. CHAPTER X We have dropped in for a good job. Eight of us have to guard a village that has been abandoned because it is being shelled too heavily. In particular we have to watch the supply dump as that is not yet empty. We are supposed to provision ourselves from the same store. We are just the right people for that;--Kat, Albert, Müller, Tjaden, Detering, our whole gang is there. Haie is dead, though. But we are mighty lucky all the same, all the other squads have had more casualties than we have. We select, as a dug-out, a reinforced concrete cellar into which steps lead down from above. The entrance is protected by a separate concrete wall. Now we develop an immense industry. This is an opportunity not only to stretch one's legs, but to stretch one's soul also. We make the best use of such opportunities. The war is too desperate to allow us to be sentimental for long. That is only possible so long as things are not going too badly. After all, we cannot afford to be anything but matter-of-fact. So matter-of-fact, indeed, that I often shudder when a thought from the days before the war comes momentarily into my head. But it does not stay long. We have to take things as lightly as we can, so we make the most of every opportunity, and nonsense stands stark and immediate beside horror. It cannot be otherwise, that is how we hearten ourselves. So we zealously set to work to create an idyll--an idyll of eating and sleeping, of course. The floor is first covered with mattresses which we haul in from the houses. Even a soldier's behind likes to sit soft. Only in the middle of the floor is there any clear space. Then we furnish ourselves with blankets and eiderdowns, luxurious soft affairs. There is plenty of everything to be had in the town. Albert and I find a mahogany bed which can be taken to pieces, with a sky of blue silk and a lace coverlet. We sweat like monkeys moving it in, but a man cannot let a thing like that slip, and it would certainly be shot to pieces in a day or two. Kat and I do a little patrolling through the houses. In very short time we have collected a dozen eggs and two pounds of fairly fresh butter. Suddenly there is a crash in the drawing room, and an iron stove hurtles through the wall past us and on, a yard from us out through the	It seems to me to come quickly now. One hour more. If it were summer, it would be three hours more. One hour more. Now suddenly I begin to tremble; something might happen in the interval. I think no more of the dead man, he is of no consequence to me now. With one bound the lust to live flares up again and everything that has filled my thoughts goes down before it. Now, merely to avert any ill-luck, I babble mechanically: "I will fulfil everything, fulfil everything I have promised you----" but already I know that I shall not do so. Suddenly it occurs to me that my own comrades may fire on me as I creep up; they do not know I am coming. I will call out as soon as I can so that they will recognize me. I will stay lying in front of the trench until they answer me. The first star. The front remains quiet. I breathe deeply and talk to myself in my excitement: "No foolishness now, Paul--Quiet, Paul, quiet--then you will be saved, Paul." When I use my Christian name it works as though someone else spoke to me, it has more power. The darkness grows. My excitement subsides, I wait cautiously until the first rocket goes up. Then I crawl out of the shell-hole. I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward. I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back. I do not mention the dead printer. But by next morning I can keep it to myself no longer. I must tell Kat and Albert. They both try to calm me. "You can't do anything about it. What else could you have done? That is what you are here for." I listen to them and feel comforted, reassured by their presence. It was mere drivelling nonsense that I talked out there in the shell-hole. "Look there for instance," points Kat. On the fire-step stand some snipers. They rest their rifles with telescopic sights on the parapet and watch the enemy front. Once and again a shot cracks out. Then we hear the cry: "That's found a billet!" "Did you see how he leapt in the air?" Sergeant Oellrich turns round proudly and scores his point. He heads the shooting list for to-day with three unquestionable hits. "What do you say to that?" asks Kat. I nod. "If he keeps that up he will get a little coloured bird for his buttonhole by this evening," says Albert. "Or rather he will soon be made acting-sergeant-major," says Kat. We look at one another. "I would not do it," I say. "All the same," says Kat, "it's very good for you to see it just now." Sergeant Oellrich returns to the fire-step. The muzzle of his rifle searches to and fro. "You don't need to lose any more sleep over your affair," nods Albert. And now I hardly understand it myself any more. "It was only because I had to lie there with him so long," I say. "After all, war is war." Oellrich's rifle cracks out sharp and dry. CHAPTER X We have dropped in for a good job. Eight of us have to guard a village that has been abandoned because it is being shelled too heavily. In particular we have to watch the supply dump as that is not yet empty. We are supposed to provision ourselves from the same store. We are just the right people for that;--Kat, Albert, Müller, Tjaden, Detering, our whole gang is there. Haie is dead, though. But we are mighty lucky all the same, all the other squads have had more casualties than we have. We select, as a dug-out, a reinforced concrete cellar into which steps lead down from above. The entrance is protected by a separate concrete wall. Now we develop an immense industry. This is an opportunity not only to stretch one's legs, but to stretch one's soul also. We make the best use of such opportunities. The war is too desperate to allow us to be sentimental for long. That is only possible so long as things are not going too badly. After all, we cannot afford to be anything but matter-of-fact. So matter-of-fact, indeed, that I often shudder when a thought from the days before the war comes momentarily into my head. But it does not stay long. We have to take things as lightly as we can, so we make the most	All Quiet on the Western Front
"What is it?"	Leonce Pontellier	sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and	sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the	to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He	property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to	The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. "What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him. "You are burnt beyond recognition," he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier. "Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna," instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. "Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away. "Coming back to dinner?" his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company	was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the _pension_ had gone over to the _Ch ni re Caminada_ in Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's two children were there sturdy little fellows of four and five. A quadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative air. Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. "What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him. "You are burnt beyond recognition," he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier. "Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna," instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. "Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away. "Coming back to dinner?" his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein's and the size of "the game." He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him. Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts. II Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of contemplation or thought. Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certain frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her manner was engaging. Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his after-dinner smoke. This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was not unlike	THE AWAKENING I A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over: "_Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_ That's all right!" He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it was the mocking-bird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with maddening persistence. Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort, arose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust. He walked down the gallery and across the narrow "bridges" which connected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seated before the door of the main house. The parrot and the mocking-bird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their society when they ceased to be entertaining. He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task of reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old. The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New Orleans the day before. Mr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height and rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed. Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main building was called "the house," to distinguish it from the cottages. The chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls, the Farival twins, were playing a duet from "Zampa" upon the piano. Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the _pension_ had gone over to the _Ch ni re Caminada_ in Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's two children were there sturdy little fellows of four and five. A quadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative air. Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. "What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him. "You are burnt beyond recognition," he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier. "Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna," instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. "Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away. "Coming back to dinner?" his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein's and the size of "the game." He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him. Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts. II Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of contemplation or thought. Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certain frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her manner was engaging. Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his after-dinner smoke. This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was not unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more pronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of care upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the light and languor of the summer day. Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch and began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light puffs from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things around them; their amusing adventure out in the water it had again assumed its entertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people who had gone to the _Ch ni re;_ about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the Farival twins, who were now performing the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant." Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not know any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the same reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke of his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited him. He was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got there. Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile house in New Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French and Spanish gave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent. He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother at Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, "the house" had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by its dozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive visitors from the "_Quartier Fran ais_," it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright. Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father's Mississippi plantation and her girlhood home in the old Kentucky blue-grass country. She was an American woman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have been lost in dilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away in the East, and who had engaged herself to be married. Robert was interested, and wanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were, what the father was like, and how long the mother had been dead. When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for the	forty, of medium height and rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed. Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main building was called "the house," to distinguish it from the cottages. The chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls, the Farival twins, were playing a duet from "Zampa" upon the piano. Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the _pension_ had gone over to the _Ch ni re Caminada_ in Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's two children were there sturdy little fellows of four and five. A quadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative air. Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. "What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him. "You are burnt beyond recognition," he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier. "Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna," instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. "Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away. "Coming back to dinner?" his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein's and the size of "the game." He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him. Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts. II Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of contemplation or thought. Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome than beautiful. Her	The Awakening
Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?	No speaker	Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>Jem Wimble gave Don another	again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before	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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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	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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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,	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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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	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. "Come in," 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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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	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. "Come in," 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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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 to you. How dare you charge him with such a crime?" "I did not charge him with any crime, my dear Laura," said the old merchant, gravely. "Then it is not true?" "It is true that I have been robbed, and that the man whom Lindon has persisted in making his companion, in spite of all I have said to the contrary, has charged him with the base, contemptible crime of robbing the master who trusted him." "But it is not true, Josiah; and that is what you always do, treat my poor boy as if he were your servant instead of your nephew--your sister's boy." "I treat Lindon as if he were my son when we are at home," said the old man, quietly. "When we are here at the office I treat him as my clerk, and I trust him to look after my interests, and to defend me from dishonest people." Don looked up, and it was on his lips to say, "Indeed, uncle, I always have done so," when the old man's next words seemed to chill and harden him. "But instead of doing his duty by me, I have constantly had to reprove him for making a companion of a man whom I weakly, and against my better judgment, allowed in the yard; and the result is I have been robbed, and this man accuses Lindon of committing the robbery, and bribing him to silence." "But it is not true, Josiah. My son could not be guilty of such a crime." "He will have every opportunity of disproving it before the magistrates," said Uncle Josiah, coldly. "Magistrates!--my boy?" exclaimed Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, no, no, no, brother; you will not proceed to such extremities as these. My boy before the magistrates. Impossible!" "The matter is out of my hands, now," said the old merchant, gravely. "I was bound to charge that scoundrel labourer with the theft. I could not tell that he would accuse your son of being the principal in the crime." "But you will stop it now for my sake, dear. Don, my boy, why do you not speak, and beg	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. "Come in," 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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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	Don Lavington
"You are very fond of her, then."	Margaret	person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible	Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at	I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a	you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." Margaret glanced out of the window. "By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t	deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." Margaret glanced out of the window. "By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?"	nearly everything that I want." "I told you nothing that was true." "It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?" "Helen, you wouldn t think I d invent that?" "I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. "But one loses faith in everything after this." "We thought it was illness, but even then--I haven t behaved worthily." Helen selected another book. "I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have thought of me?" She did not think of questioning her sister, or of rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed--that want of confidence that is the work of the devil. "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do." "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me." "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can t go through a great deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." Margaret glanced out of the window. "By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?" "No one." "I suppose you are letting it, though." "The house is dead," said Margaret, with a frown. "Why worry on about it?" "But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes own things." "Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can t go on like this. I warn you I won t. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?" "I don t hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I m not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your English life--no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street! It s unthinkable." Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly moving	each other anxiously. "No more does my sister, who is still many weeks from her confinement." "Margaret, Margaret!" "Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible use is he now?" Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a vague feeling that he must stand firm and support the doctor. He himself might need support, for there was trouble ahead. "It all turns on affection now," said Margaret. "Affection. Don t you see?" Resuming her usual methods, she wrote the word on the house with her finger. "Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you not so much. Mr. Mansbridge doesn t know her. That s all. And affection, when reciprocated, gives rights. Put that down in your note-book, Mr. Mansbridge. It s a useful formula." Henry told her to be calm. "You don t know what you want yourselves," said Margaret, folding her arms. "For one sensible remark I will let you in. But you cannot make it. You would trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it. I ll stand here all the day sooner." "Mansbridge," said Henry in a low voice, "perhaps not now." The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went back into the car. "Now, Henry, you," she said gently. None of her bitterness had been directed at him. "Go away now, dear. I shall want your advice later, no doubt. Forgive me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go." He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in a low voice to him. "I shall soon find you down at Dolly s," she called, as the gate at last clanged between them. The fly moved out of the way, the motor backed, turned a little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A string of farm carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all, for there was no hurry. When all was over and the car had started, she opened the door. "Oh, my darling!" she said. "My darling, forgive me." Helen was standing in the hall. CHAPTER XXXVII Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her, said: "Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that I want." "I told you nothing that was true." "It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?" "Helen, you wouldn t think I d invent that?" "I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. "But one loses faith in everything after this." "We thought it was illness, but even then--I haven t behaved worthily." Helen selected another book. "I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have thought of me?" She did not think of questioning her sister, or of rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed--that want of confidence that is the work of the devil. "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do." "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me." "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can t go through a great deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." Margaret glanced out of the window. "By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?" "No one." "I suppose you are letting it, though." "The house is dead," said Margaret, with a frown. "Why worry on about it?" "But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes own things." "Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can t go on like this. I warn you I won t. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?" "I don t hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I m not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your English life--no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street! It s unthinkable." Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not bitter or excitable, neither asserting innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the company of those who would not blame her. She had been through--how much? Margaret did not know. But it was enough to part her from old habits as well as old friends. "Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was lingering over the furniture. "There s nothing to tell." "But your marriage has been happy, Meg?" "Yes, but I don t feel inclined to talk." "You feel as I do." "Not that, but I can t." "No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying." Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection survived. "Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?" "You mean that you want to go away from me?" "I suppose so--dear old lady! it isn t any use. I knew we should have nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich later." "Certainly, dearest." "For that is all we can do." It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen s common sense; Monica had been extraordinarily good for her. "I am glad to have seen you and the things." She looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past. Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: "The car has gone, and here s your cab." She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, "Please, lady, a message," and handed her Henry s visiting-card through the bars. "How did this come?" she asked. Crane had returned with it almost at once. She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in domestic French. When she and her sister had talked she was to come back for the night to Dolly s. "Il faut dormir sur ce sujet." while Helen was to be found une comfortable chambre a l hotel. The final sentence displeased her greatly until she remembered that	is the work of the devil. "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do." "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me." "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can t go through a great deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." Margaret glanced out of the window. "By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?" "No one." "I suppose you are letting it, though." "The house is dead," said Margaret, with a frown. "Why worry on about it?" "But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes own things." "Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can t go on like this. I warn you I won t. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?" "I don t hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I m not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your English life--no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street! It s unthinkable." Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not bitter or excitable, neither asserting innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the company of those who would not blame her. She had been through--how much? Margaret did not know. But it was enough to part her from old habits as well as old friends. "Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was lingering over the furniture. "There s nothing to tell." "But your marriage has been happy, Meg?" "Yes, but I don t feel inclined to talk." "You feel as I do." "Not that, but I can t." "No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying." Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection survived. "Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?" "You mean that you want to go away from me?" "I suppose so--dear old lady! it isn t any use. I knew we should have nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby,	Howards End
When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:	No speaker	him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have	know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this	"At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to	preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank	Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this morning that she would never see me again." She spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in."	breast, and invoked the name of God, she would have summoned forth his imagination and generosity he had plenty of both. But while relieving the Oriental mind, she had chilled it, with the result that he could scarcely believe she was sincere, and indeed from his standpoint she was not. For her behaviour rested on cold justice and honesty; she had felt, while she recanted, no passion of love for those whom she had wronged. Truth is not truth in that exacting land unless there go with it kindness and more kindness and kindness again, unless the Word that was with God also is God. And the girl's sacrifice so creditable according to Western notions was rightly rejected, because, though it came from her heart, it did not include her heart. A few garlands from students was all that India ever gave her in return. "But where is she to have her dinner, where is she to sleep? I say here, here, and if she is hit on the head by roughs, she is hit on the head. That is my contribution. Well, Miss Quested?" "You are very kind. I should have said yes, I think, but I agree with Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this morning that she would never see me again." She spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's	possibilities will take you some time" here he put his arm over the Englishman's shoulder and swayed him to and fro gently "don't you think you had better come out to the Nawab Bahadur's or I should say to Mr. Zulfiqar's, for that is the name he now requires us to call him by." "Gladly, in a minute . . ." "I have just settled my movements," said Miss Quested. "I shall go to the Dak Bungalow." "Not the Turtons'?" said Hamidullah, goggle-eyed. "I thought you were their guest." The Dak Bungalow of Chandrapore was below the average, and certainly servantless. Fielding, though he continued to sway with Hamidullah, was thinking on independent lines, and said in a moment: "I have a better idea than that, Miss Quested. You must stop here at the College. I shall be away at least two days, and you can have the place entirely to yourself, and make your plans at your convenience." "I don't agree at all," said Hamidullah, with every symptom of dismay. "The idea is a thoroughly bad one. There may quite well be another demonstration to-night, and suppose an attack is made on the College. You would be held responsible for this lady's safety, my dear fellow." "They might equally attack the Dak Bungalow." "Exactly, but the responsibility there ceases to be yours." "Quite so. I have given trouble enough." "Do you hear? The lady admits it herself. It's not an attack from our people I fear you should see their orderly conduct at the hospital; what we must guard against is an attack secretly arranged by the police for the purpose of discrediting you. McBryde keeps plenty of roughs for this purpose, and this would be the very opportunity for him." "Never mind. She is not going to the Dak Bungalow," said Fielding. He had a natural sympathy for the down-trodden that was partly why he rallied from Aziz and had become determined not to leave the poor girl in the lurch. Also, he had a new-born respect for her, consequent on their talk. Although her hard schoolmistressy manner remained, she was no longer examining life, but being examined by it; she had become a real person. "Then where is she to go? We shall never have done with her!" For Miss Quested had not appealed to Hamidullah. If she had shown emotion in court, broke down, beat her breast, and invoked the name of God, she would have summoned forth his imagination and generosity he had plenty of both. But while relieving the Oriental mind, she had chilled it, with the result that he could scarcely believe she was sincere, and indeed from his standpoint she was not. For her behaviour rested on cold justice and honesty; she had felt, while she recanted, no passion of love for those whom she had wronged. Truth is not truth in that exacting land unless there go with it kindness and more kindness and kindness again, unless the Word that was with God also is God. And the girl's sacrifice so creditable according to Western notions was rightly rejected, because, though it came from her heart, it did not include her heart. A few garlands from students was all that India ever gave her in return. "But where is she to have her dinner, where is she to sleep? I say here, here, and if she is hit on the head by roughs, she is hit on the head. That is my contribution. Well, Miss Quested?" "You are very kind. I should have said yes, I think, but I agree with Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this morning that she would never see me again." She spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular. "I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?" "I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your	for those whom she had wronged. Truth is not truth in that exacting land unless there go with it kindness and more kindness and kindness again, unless the Word that was with God also is God. And the girl's sacrifice so creditable according to Western notions was rightly rejected, because, though it came from her heart, it did not include her heart. A few garlands from students was all that India ever gave her in return. "But where is she to have her dinner, where is she to sleep? I say here, here, and if she is hit on the head by roughs, she is hit on the head. That is my contribution. Well, Miss Quested?" "You are very kind. I should have said yes, I think, but I agree with Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this morning that she would never see me again." She spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to	A Passage To India
Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.	No speaker	know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a	see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one	her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of	some strain of the South's chivalric blood, which is so curiously mingled with the African in the veins of most coloured people, had tinged her skin to an olive hue. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he leaned over and whispered to her. His voice was very confidential and his lips near her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of work, Miss Hamilton, whenever you can keep old Bill from goin' out an' lushin' between acts. Say, you got a good thing; push it along." The girl's mother half rose, but she resumed her seat, for the man was going away. Her mind was not quiet again, however, until the	speak to him, smile at him! If ever a man was intoxicated, Joe was. Mrs. Hamilton was divided between shame at the clothes of some of the women and delight with the music. Her companion was busy pointing out who this and that actress was, and giving jelly-like appreciation to the doings on the stage. Mr. Thomas was the only cool one in the party. He was quietly taking stock of his young companion,--of her innocence and charm. She was a pretty girl, little and dainty, but well developed for her age. Her hair was very black and wavy, and some strain of the South's chivalric blood, which is so curiously mingled with the African in the veins of most coloured people, had tinged her skin to an olive hue. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he leaned over and whispered to her. His voice was very confidential and his lips near her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of work, Miss Hamilton, whenever you can keep old Bill from goin' out an' lushin' between acts. Say, you got a good thing; push it along." The girl's mother half rose, but she resumed her seat, for the man was going away. Her mind was not quiet again, however, until the people were all in their seats and the curtain had gone up on the second act. At first she was surprised at the enthusiasm over just such dancing as she could see any day from the loafers on the street corners down home, and then, like a good, sensible, humble woman, she came around to the idea that it was she who had always been wrong in putting too low a value on really worthy things. So she laughed and applauded with the rest, all the while trying to quiet something that was tugging at her away down in her	white, pale yellow, and sickly greens to brick reds and slate grays. They were dressed in costumes that were not primarily intended for picnic going. But they could sing, and they did sing, with their voices, their bodies, their souls. They threw themselves into it because they enjoyed and felt what they were doing, and they gave almost a semblance of dignity to the tawdry music and inane words. Kitty was enchanted. The airily dressed women seemed to her like creatures from fairy-land. It is strange how the glare of the footlights succeeds in deceiving so many people who are able to see through other delusions. The cheap dresses on the street had not fooled Kitty for an instant, but take the same cheese-cloth, put a little water starch into it, and put it on the stage, and she could see only chiffon. She turned around and nodded delightedly at her brother, but he did not see her. He was lost, transfixed. His soul was floating on a sea of sense. He had eyes and ears and thoughts only for the stage. His nerves tingled and his hands twitched. Only to know one of those radiant creatures, to have her speak to him, smile at him! If ever a man was intoxicated, Joe was. Mrs. Hamilton was divided between shame at the clothes of some of the women and delight with the music. Her companion was busy pointing out who this and that actress was, and giving jelly-like appreciation to the doings on the stage. Mr. Thomas was the only cool one in the party. He was quietly taking stock of his young companion,--of her innocence and charm. She was a pretty girl, little and dainty, but well developed for her age. Her hair was very black and wavy, and some strain of the South's chivalric blood, which is so curiously mingled with the African in the veins of most coloured people, had tinged her skin to an olive hue. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he leaned over and whispered to her. His voice was very confidential and his lips near her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of work, Miss Hamilton, whenever you can keep old Bill from goin' out an' lushin' between acts. Say, you got a good thing; push it along." The girl's mother half rose, but she resumed her seat, for the man was going away. Her mind was not quiet again, however, until the people were all in their seats and the curtain had gone up on the second act. At first she was surprised at the enthusiasm over just such dancing as she could see any day from the loafers on the street corners down home, and then, like a good, sensible, humble woman, she came around to the idea that it was she who had always been wrong in putting too low a value on really worthy things. So she laughed and applauded with the rest, all the while trying to quiet something that was tugging at her away down in her heart. When the performance was over she forced her way to Kitty's side, where she remained in spite of all Thomas's palpable efforts to get her away. Finally he proposed that they all go to supper at one of the coloured cafes. "You 'll see a lot o' the show people," he said. "No, I reckon we 'd bettah go home," said Mrs. Hamilton decidedly. "De chillen ain't ust to stayin' up all hours o' nights, an' I ain't anxious fu' 'em to git ust to it." She was conscious of a growing dislike for this man who treated her daughter with such a proprietary air. Joe winced again at "de chillen." Thomas bit his lip, and mentally said things that are unfit for publication. Aloud he said, "Mebbe Miss Kitty 'ud like to go an' have a little lunch." "Oh, no, thank you," said the girl; "I 've had a nice time and I don't care for a thing to eat." Joe told himself that Kitty was the biggest fool that it had ever been his lot to meet, and the disappointed suitor satisfied himself with the reflection that the girl was green yet, but would get bravely over	broke out on his brow, but instantly he began to swell. He had made a decided advance in knowledge, and he swelled with the consciousness that already he was coming to be a man of the world. He looked with a new feeling at the swaggering, sporty young negroes. His attitude towards them was not one of humble self-depreciation any more. Since last night he had grown, and felt that he might, that he would, be like them, and it put a sort of chuckling glee into his heart. One might find it in him to feel sorry for this small-souled, warped being, for he was so evidently the jest of Fate, if it were not that he was so blissfully, so conceitedly, unconscious of his own nastiness. Down home he had shaved the wild young bucks of the town, and while doing it drunk in eagerly their unguarded narrations of their gay exploits. So he had started out with false ideals as to what was fine and manly. He was afflicted by a sort of moral and mental astigmatism that made him see everything wrong. As he sat there to-night, he gave to all he saw a wrong value and upon it based his ignorant desires. When the men of the orchestra filed in and began tuning their instruments, it was the signal for an influx of loiterers from the door. There were a large number of coloured people in the audience, and because members of their own race were giving the performance, they seemed to take a proprietary interest in it all. They discussed its merits and demerits as they walked down the aisle in much the same tone that the owners would have used had they been wondering whether the entertainment was going to please the people or not. Finally the music struck up one of the numerous negro marches. It was accompanied by the rhythmic patting of feet from all parts of the house. Then the curtain went up on a scene of beauty. It purported to be a grove to which a party of picnickers, the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus, had come for a holiday, and they were telling the audience all about it in crescendos. With the exception of one, who looked like a faded kid glove, the men discarded the grease paint, but the women under their make-ups ranged from pure white, pale yellow, and sickly greens to brick reds and slate grays. They were dressed in costumes that were not primarily intended for picnic going. But they could sing, and they did sing, with their voices, their bodies, their souls. They threw themselves into it because they enjoyed and felt what they were doing, and they gave almost a semblance of dignity to the tawdry music and inane words. Kitty was enchanted. The airily dressed women seemed to her like creatures from fairy-land. It is strange how the glare of the footlights succeeds in deceiving so many people who are able to see through other delusions. The cheap dresses on the street had not fooled Kitty for an instant, but take the same cheese-cloth, put a little water starch into it, and put it on the stage, and she could see only chiffon. She turned around and nodded delightedly at her brother, but he did not see her. He was lost, transfixed. His soul was floating on a sea of sense. He had eyes and ears and thoughts only for the stage. His nerves tingled and his hands twitched. Only to know one of those radiant creatures, to have her speak to him, smile at him! If ever a man was intoxicated, Joe was. Mrs. Hamilton was divided between shame at the clothes of some of the women and delight with the music. Her companion was busy pointing out who this and that actress was, and giving jelly-like appreciation to the doings on the stage. Mr. Thomas was the only cool one in the party. He was quietly taking stock of his young companion,--of her innocence and charm. She was a pretty girl, little and dainty, but well developed for her age. Her hair was very black and wavy, and some strain of the South's chivalric blood, which is so curiously mingled with the African in the veins of most coloured people, had tinged her skin to an olive hue. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he leaned over and whispered to her. His voice was very confidential and his lips near her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of work, Miss Hamilton, whenever you can keep old Bill from goin' out an' lushin' between acts. Say, you got a good thing; push it along." The girl's mother half rose, but she resumed her seat, for the man was going away. Her mind was not quiet again, however, until the people were all in their seats and the curtain had gone up on the second act. At first she was surprised at the enthusiasm over just such dancing as she could see any day from the loafers on the street corners down home, and then, like a good, sensible, humble woman, she came around to the idea that it was she who had always been wrong in putting too low a value on really worthy things. So she laughed and applauded with the rest, all the while trying to quiet something that was tugging at her away down in her heart. When the performance was over she forced her way to Kitty's side, where she remained in spite of all Thomas's palpable efforts to get her away. Finally he proposed that they all go to supper at one of the coloured cafes. "You 'll see a lot o' the show people," he said. "No, I reckon we 'd bettah go home," said Mrs. Hamilton decidedly. "De chillen ain't ust to stayin' up all hours o' nights, an' I ain't anxious fu' 'em to git ust to it." She was conscious of a growing dislike for this man who treated her daughter with such a proprietary air. Joe winced again at "de chillen." Thomas bit his lip, and mentally said things that are unfit for publication. Aloud he said, "Mebbe Miss Kitty 'ud like to go an' have a little lunch." "Oh, no, thank you," said the girl; "I 've had a nice time and I don't care for a thing to eat." Joe told himself that Kitty was the biggest fool that it had ever been his lot to meet, and the disappointed suitor satisfied himself with the reflection that the girl was green yet, but would get bravely over that. He attempted to hold her hand as they parted at the parlour door, but she drew her fingers out of his clasp and said, "Good-night; thank you," as if he had been one of her mother's old friends. Joe lingered a little longer. "Say, that was out o' sight," he said. "Think so?" asked the other carelessly. "I 'd like to get out with you some time to see the town," the boy went on eagerly. "All right, we 'll go some time. So long." "So long." Some time. Was it true? Would he really take him out and let him meet stage people? Joe went to bed with his head in a whirl. He slept little that night for thinking of his heart's desire. IX HIS HEART'S DESIRE Whatever else his visit to the theatre may have done for Joe, it inspired him with a desire to go to work and earn money of his own, to be independent both of parental help and control, and so be able to spend as he pleased. With this end in view he set out to hunt for work. It was a pleasant contrast to his last similar quest, and he felt it with joy. He was treated everywhere he went with courtesy, even when no situation was forthcoming. Finally he came upon a man who was willing to try him for an afternoon. From the moment the boy rightly considered himself engaged, for he was master of his trade. He began his work with heart elate. Now he had within his grasp the possibility of being all that he wanted to be. Now Thomas might take him out at any time and not be ashamed of him. With Thomas, the fact that Joe was working put the boy in an entirely new light. He decided that now he might be worth cultivating. For a week or two he had ignored him, and, proceeding upon the principle that if you give corn to the old hen she will cluck to her chicks, had treated Mrs. Hamilton with marked deference and kindness. This had been without success, as both the girl and her mother held themselves politely aloof from him. He began to see that his hope of winning Kitty's affections lay, not in courting the older woman but in making a friend of the boy. So on a certain Saturday night	the footlights succeeds in deceiving so many people who are able to see through other delusions. The cheap dresses on the street had not fooled Kitty for an instant, but take the same cheese-cloth, put a little water starch into it, and put it on the stage, and she could see only chiffon. She turned around and nodded delightedly at her brother, but he did not see her. He was lost, transfixed. His soul was floating on a sea of sense. He had eyes and ears and thoughts only for the stage. His nerves tingled and his hands twitched. Only to know one of those radiant creatures, to have her speak to him, smile at him! If ever a man was intoxicated, Joe was. Mrs. Hamilton was divided between shame at the clothes of some of the women and delight with the music. Her companion was busy pointing out who this and that actress was, and giving jelly-like appreciation to the doings on the stage. Mr. Thomas was the only cool one in the party. He was quietly taking stock of his young companion,--of her innocence and charm. She was a pretty girl, little and dainty, but well developed for her age. Her hair was very black and wavy, and some strain of the South's chivalric blood, which is so curiously mingled with the African in the veins of most coloured people, had tinged her skin to an olive hue. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he leaned over and whispered to her. His voice was very confidential and his lips near her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of work, Miss Hamilton, whenever you can keep old Bill from goin' out an' lushin' between acts. Say, you got a good thing; push it along." The girl's mother half rose, but she resumed her seat, for the man was going away. Her mind was not quiet again, however, until the people were all in their seats and the curtain had gone up on the second act. At first she was surprised at the enthusiasm over just such dancing as she could see any day from the loafers on the street corners down home, and then, like a good, sensible, humble woman, she came around to the idea that it was she who had always been wrong in putting too low a value on really worthy things. So she laughed and applauded with the rest, all the while trying to quiet something that was tugging at her away down in her heart. When the performance was over she forced her way to Kitty's side, where she remained in spite of all Thomas's palpable efforts to get her away. Finally he proposed that they all go to supper at one of the coloured cafes. "You 'll see a lot o' the show people," he said. "No, I reckon we 'd bettah go home," said Mrs. Hamilton decidedly. "De chillen ain't ust to stayin' up all hours o' nights, an' I ain't anxious fu' 'em to git ust to it." She was conscious of a growing dislike for this man who treated her daughter with such a proprietary air. Joe winced again at "de chillen." Thomas bit his lip, and mentally said things that are unfit for publication. Aloud he said, "Mebbe Miss Kitty 'ud like to go an' have a little lunch." "Oh, no, thank you," said the girl; "I 've had a nice time and I don't care for a thing to eat." Joe told himself that Kitty was the biggest fool that it had ever been his lot to meet, and the disappointed suitor satisfied himself with the reflection that the girl was green yet, but would get bravely over that. He attempted to hold her hand as they parted at the parlour door, but she drew her fingers out of his clasp and said, "Good-night; thank you," as if he had been one of her mother's old friends. Joe lingered a little longer. "Say, that was out o' sight," he said. "Think so?"	The Sport Of The Gods
"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."	Charlotte	extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor,	dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of	from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my	a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give	She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and	the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won t. Don t you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me." "There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world." She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately." "And what did the Colonel say?" "Oh he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?" "Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?" "Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing." "So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says _he_ was in love with your sister too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said Elinor. "Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people	rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do, and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful! My love," applying to her husband, "don t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?" "Certainly," he replied, with a sneer "I came into Devonshire with no other view." "There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won t. Don t you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me." "There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world." She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately." "And what did the Colonel say?" "Oh he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?" "Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?" "Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing." "So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says _he_ was in love with your sister too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said Elinor. "Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don t think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night." Mrs. Palmer s information respecting Willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her. "I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte. "And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can t think how much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts." "You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?" "Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a particular friend of Sir John s. I believe," she added in a low voice, "he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately." "Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John s proposal to your mother before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?" "Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is the kind of man I like." CHAPTER XXI. The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day,	is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world." She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately." "And what did the Colonel say?" "Oh he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?" "Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?" "Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing." "So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says _he_ was in love with your sister too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said Elinor. "Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that	Sense And Sensibility
"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"	Henry	He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A	Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money	I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us.	in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn t." "--and needn t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says reduced," corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider the battle of life a happy expression." "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you re not to blame. No one s to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn t say that, but you re taking it far too seriously. Who is	some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems." But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. "Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--" she began and went scarlet all over her face. "It s all right," called Margaret, catching them up. "Dempster s Bank s better." "But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before Christmas." "Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn t." "--and needn t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says reduced," corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider the battle of life a happy expression." "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you re not to blame. No one s to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn t say that, but you re taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow?" "We have told you about the fellow twice already," said Helen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We--we, the upper classes--thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge--and here s the result!" He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice." "I require no more advice." "A word of advice. Don t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one s sorry for them, but	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 bark for toothache." "What a rum notion! Of course not!" "Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems." But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. "Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--" she began and went scarlet all over her face. "It s all right," called Margaret, catching them up. "Dempster s Bank s better." "But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before Christmas." "Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn t." "--and needn t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says reduced," corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider the battle of life a happy expression." "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you re not to blame. No one s to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn t say that, but you re taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow?" "We have told you about the fellow twice already," said Helen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We--we, the upper classes--thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge--and here s the result!" He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice." "I require no more advice." "A word of advice. Don t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one s sorry for them, but there it is. As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it s absurd to pretend that any one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk s loss of salary. It s just the shoe pinching--no one can help it; and it might easily have been worse." Helen quivered with indignation. "By all means subscribe to charities--subscribe to them largely--but don t get carried away by absurd schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind the scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no Social Question--except for a few journalists who try to get a living out of the phrase. There are just rich and poor, as there always have been and always will be. Point me out a time when men have been equal--" "I didn t say--" "Point me out a time when desire for equality has made them happier. No, no. You can t. There always have been rich and poor. I m no fatalist. Heaven forbid! But our civilisation is moulded by great impersonal	"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 bark for toothache." "What a rum notion! Of course not!" "Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems." But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. "Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--" she began and went scarlet all over her face. "It s all right," called Margaret, catching them up. "Dempster s Bank s better." "But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before Christmas." "Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn t." "--and needn t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says reduced," corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider the battle of life a happy expression." "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you re not to blame. No one s to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn t say that, but you re taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow?" "We have told you about the fellow twice already," said Helen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We--we, the upper classes--thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge--and here s the result!" He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice." "I require no more advice." "A word of advice. Don t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one s sorry for them, but there it is. As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it s absurd to pretend that any one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk s loss of salary. It s just the shoe pinching--no one can help it; and it might easily have been worse." Helen quivered with indignation. "By all means subscribe to charities--subscribe to them largely--but don t get carried away by absurd schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind the scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no Social Question--except for a few journalists who try to get a living out of the phrase. There are just rich and poor, as there always have been and always will be. Point me out a time when men have been equal--" "I didn t say--" "Point me out a time when desire for equality has made them happier. No, no. You can t. There always have been rich and poor. I m no fatalist. Heaven forbid! But our civilisation is moulded by great impersonal forces" (his voice grew complacent; it always did when he eliminated the personal), "and there always will be rich and poor. You can t deny it" (and now it was a respectful voice)--" "and you can t deny that, in spite of all, the tendency of civilisation has on the whole been upward." "Owing to God, I suppose," flashed Helen. He stared at her. "You grab the dollars. God does the rest." It was no good instructing the girl if she was going to talk about God in that neurotic modern way. Fraternal to the last, he left her for the quieter company of Mrs. Munt. He thought, "She rather reminds me of Dolly." Helen looked out at the sea. "Don t ever discuss political economy with Henry," advised her sister. "It ll only end in a cry." "But he must be one of those men who have reconciled science with religion," said Helen slowly. "I don t like those men. They are scientific themselves, and talk of the survival of the fittest, and cut down the salaries of their clerks, and stunt the independence of all who may menace their comfort, but yet they believe that somehow good--it is always that sloppy somehow will be the outcome, and that in some mystical way the Mr. Basts of the future will benefit because the Mr. Brits of today are in pain." "He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in theory!" "But oh, Meg, what a theory!" "Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?" "Because I m an old maid," said Helen, biting her lip. "I can t think why I go on like this myself." She shook off her sister s hand and went into the house. Margaret, distressed at the day s beginning, followed the Bournemouth steamer with her eyes. She saw that Helen s nerves were exasperated by the unlucky Bast business beyond the bounds of politeness. There might at any minute be a real explosion, which even Henry would notice. Henry must be removed. "Margaret!" her aunt called. "Magsy! It isn t true, surely, what Mr. Wilcox says, that you want to go away early next week?" "Not want," was Margaret s prompt reply; "but there is so much to be settled, and I do want to see the Charles s." "But going away without taking the Weymouth trip, or even the Lulworth?"	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 bark for toothache." "What a rum notion! Of course not!" "Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems." But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. "Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--" she began and went scarlet all over her face. "It s all right," called Margaret, catching them up. "Dempster s Bank s better." "But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before Christmas." "Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn t." "--and needn t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says reduced," corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider the battle of life a happy expression." "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you re not to blame. No one s to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn t say that, but you re taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow?" "We have told you about the fellow twice already," said Helen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We--we, the upper classes--thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge--and here s the result!" He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice." "I require no more advice." "A word of advice. Don t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one s sorry for them, but there it is. As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it s absurd to pretend that any one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk s loss of salary. It s just the shoe pinching--no one can help it; and it might easily have been worse." Helen quivered with indignation. "By all means subscribe to charities--subscribe to them largely--but don t get carried away by absurd schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind the scenes, and	Howards End
"Cousin,"	Fanny Price	she told him her distress.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "something is going	as she met with Edmund she told him her distress.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "something is going to happen which I do	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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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."	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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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	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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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	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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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	his 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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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	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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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	Mansfield Park
"Dunno,"	Jem Wimble	Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd	s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's	that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all	"Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to	it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this."	he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this." "Yes; it's all right," he said, after puffing and blowing down by the ground. "Rum, arn't it, that the air should be bad yonder and not close in here!" "The cave goes downward," said Don; "and the foul air lies in the bottom, just as it does in a well. Do you think he's dead?" "Him dead!" said Jem, contemptuously; "I don't believe you could kill a thing like that. Here, let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem	the floor diagonally. As he paused, he felt that it might be a "fault" of a few inches in width or depth, or a vast chasm going right down into the bowels of the mountain! "There's a hole here," he whispered to Jem. "Hold my hand." Jem gripped him firmly, and he reached out with one leg, and felt over the side outward and downward; and, just as he was coming to the conclusion that the place was terribly deep, and a shudder at the danger was running through him, he found that he could touch bottom. He was in the act of recovering himself, so as to try how wide the crack or fault might be, when a peculiar strangling sensation attacked him, and he felt that he was falling. The next thing he felt was Jem's lips to his ear, and feeling his whisper,-- "Hold on, lad. What's the matter?" He panted and drew his breath in a catching way for a few minutes before whispering back,-- "Nothing. Only a sudden giddiness." Jem made no comment, but gripped his hand tightly, and they stood listening, for the shadow cast faintly on the walls was motionless, and it was evident that their enemy was listening. "I'm going on, Ramsden," said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this." "Yes; it's all right," he said, after puffing and blowing down by the ground. "Rum, arn't it, that the air should be bad yonder and not close in here!" "The cave goes downward," said Don; "and the foul air lies in the bottom, just as it does in a well. Do you think he's dead?" "Him dead!" said Jem, contemptuously; "I don't believe you could kill a thing like that. Here, let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden's head round, so that the wind blew in his face. "How I should like to jump on him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh	said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this." "Yes; it's all right," he said, after puffing and blowing down by the ground. "Rum, arn't it, that the air should be bad yonder and not close in here!" "The cave goes downward," said Don; "and the foul air lies in the bottom, just as it does in a well. Do you think he's dead?" "Him dead!" said Jem, contemptuously; "I don't believe you could kill a thing like that. Here, let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden's head round, so that the wind blew in his face. "How I should like to jump on him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did	Don Lavington
"Then what do you mean?"	Cyril Fielding	mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian	the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole.	servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop	last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and	him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart	of the law. "I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, "I suppose nothing that's said inside the club will go outside the club?" winking the while at Lesley. "Why should it?" responded Lesley. "Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, at least not in this country." "Does anyone here present want to?" Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He had something to say, but it should be at his own moment. The attack failed to mature, because the Collector did not support it. Attention shifted from him for a time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The door had been opened by Ronny. The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also gentler than usual. He always showed deference to his superiors, but now it came straight from his heart. He seemed to appeal for their protection in the insult that had befallen him,	but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. "Act upon that fact until there are more facts," he concluded. "Assume every Indian is an angel." They murmured, "Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?" "Temperature." "My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me." At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law. "I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, "I suppose nothing that's said inside the club will go outside the club?" winking the while at Lesley. "Why should it?" responded Lesley. "Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, at least not in this country." "Does anyone here present want to?" Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He had something to say, but it should be at his own moment. The attack failed to mature, because the Collector did not support it. Attention shifted from him for a time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The door had been opened by Ronny. The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also gentler than usual. He always showed deference to his superiors, but now it came straight from his heart. He seemed to appeal for their protection in the insult that had befallen him, and they, in instinctive homage, rose to their feet. But every human act in the East is tainted with officialism, and while honouring him they condemned Aziz and India. Fielding realized this, and he remained seated. It was an ungracious, a caddish thing to do, perhaps an unsound thing to do, but he felt he had been passive long enough, and that he might be drawn into the wrong current if he did not make a stand. Ronny, who had not seen him, said in husky tones, "Oh please please all sit down, I only want to listen what has been decided." "Heaslop, I'm telling them I'm against any show of force," said the Collector apologetically. "I don't know whether you will feel as I do, but that is how I am situated. When the verdict is obtained, it will be another matter." "You are sure to know best; I have no experience, Burra Sahib." "How is your mother, old boy?" "Better, thank you. I wish everyone would sit down." "Some have never got up," the young soldier said. "And the Major brings us an excellent report of Miss Quested," Turton went on. "I do, I do, I'm satisfied." "You thought badly of her earlier, did you not, Major? That's why I refused bail." Callendar laughed with friendly inwardness, and said, "Heaslop, Heaslop, next time bail's wanted, ring up the old doctor before giving it; his shoulders are broad, and, speaking in the strictest confidence, don't take the old doctor's opinion too seriously. He's a blithering idiot, we can always leave it at that, but he'll do the little he can towards keeping in quod the" He broke off with affected politeness. "Oh, but he has one of his friends here." The subaltern called, "Stand up, you swine." "Mr. Fielding, what has prevented you from standing up?" said the Collector, entering the fray at last. It was the attack for which Fielding had waited, and to which he must reply. "May I make a statement, sir?" "Certainly." Seasoned and self-contained, devoid of the fervours of nationality or youth, the schoolmaster did what was for him a comparatively easy thing. He stood up and said, "I believe Dr. Aziz to be innocent." "You have a right to hold that opinion if you choose, but pray is that any reason why you should insult Mr. Heaslop?" "May I conclude my statement?" "Certainly."	not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, "I suppose nothing that's said inside the club will go outside the club?" winking the while at Lesley. "Why should it?" responded Lesley. "Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, at least not in this country." "Does anyone here present want to?" Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He had something to say, but it should be at his own moment. The attack failed to mature, because the Collector did not support it. Attention shifted from him for a time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The door had been opened by Ronny. The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also gentler than usual. He always showed deference to his superiors, but now it came straight from his heart. He seemed to appeal for their protection in the insult that had befallen him, and they, in instinctive homage, rose to their feet. But every human act in the East is tainted with officialism, and while honouring him they condemned Aziz and India. Fielding realized this, and he remained seated. It was an	A Passage To India
"What is the matter?"	Colonel Ducroix	"I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has	that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There	back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of	and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now	enemy of all creation. "After all," he said to himself, "I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do I can die," and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train. He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train." "I protest that this is most irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to	neck below the jaw. It came out clean. Half mad, he thrust again, and made what should have been a bloody scar on the Marquis's cheek. But there was no scar. For one moment the heaven of Syme again grew black with supernatural terrors. Surely the man had a charmed life. But this new spiritual dread was a more awful thing than had been the mere spiritual topsy-turvydom symbolised by the paralytic who pursued him. The Professor was only a goblin; this man was a devil perhaps he was the Devil! Anyhow, this was certain, that three times had a human sword been driven into him and made no mark. When Syme had that thought he drew himself up, and all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees. He thought of all the human things in his story of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl's red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by. Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation. "After all," he said to himself, "I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do I can die," and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train. He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train." "I protest that this is most irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don't be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!" and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill. Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand. He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene. The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice. "If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow," he said, "he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It's the kind of thing that might come in useful any day," and he gravely tore off	streak of blood, but it either was not noticed or was tacitly ignored. Every now and then he _riposted_, and once or twice he could almost fancy that he felt his point go home, but as there was no blood on blade or shirt he supposed he was mistaken. Then came an interruption and a change. At the risk of losing all, the Marquis, interrupting his quiet stare, flashed one glance over his shoulder at the line of railway on his right. Then he turned on Syme a face transfigured to that of a fiend, and began to fight as if with twenty weapons. The attack came so fast and furious, that the one shining sword seemed a shower of shining arrows. Syme had no chance to look at the railway; but also he had no need. He could guess the reason of the Marquis's sudden madness of battle the Paris train was in sight. But the Marquis's morbid energy over-reached itself. Twice Syme, parrying, knocked his opponent's point far out of the fighting circle; and the third time his _riposte_ was so rapid, that there was no doubt about the hit this time. Syme's sword actually bent under the weight of the Marquis's body, which it had pierced. Syme was as certain that he had stuck his blade into his enemy as a gardener that he has stuck his spade into the ground. Yet the Marquis sprang back from the stroke without a stagger, and Syme stood staring at his own sword-point like an idiot. There was no blood on it at all. There was an instant of rigid silence, and then Syme in his turn fell furiously on the other, filled with a flaming curiosity. The Marquis was probably, in a general sense, a better fencer than he, as he had surmised at the beginning, but at the moment the Marquis seemed distraught and at a disadvantage. He fought wildly and even weakly, and he constantly looked away at the railway line, almost as if he feared the train more than the pointed steel. Syme, on the other hand, fought fiercely but still carefully, in an intellectual fury, eager to solve the riddle of his own bloodless sword. For this purpose, he aimed less at the Marquis's body, and more at his throat and head. A minute and a half afterwards he felt his point enter the man's neck below the jaw. It came out clean. Half mad, he thrust again, and made what should have been a bloody scar on the Marquis's cheek. But there was no scar. For one moment the heaven of Syme again grew black with supernatural terrors. Surely the man had a charmed life. But this new spiritual dread was a more awful thing than had been the mere spiritual topsy-turvydom symbolised by the paralytic who pursued him. The Professor was only a goblin; this man was a devil perhaps he was the Devil! Anyhow, this was certain, that three times had a human sword been driven into him and made no mark. When Syme had that thought he drew himself up, and all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees. He thought of all the human things in his story of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl's red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by. Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation. "After all," he said to himself, "I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do I can die," and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train. He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train." "I protest that this is most irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don't be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!" and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill. Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand. He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene. The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice. "If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow," he said, "he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It's the kind of thing that might come in useful any day," and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage. "If I had known," he spluttered, "that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight" "Oh, I know, I know!" said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. "You are making a mistake; but it can't be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!" "Yes," said Dr. Bull fiercely, "and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil's work" The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath. "Will you drive me mad?" he cried. "The train" "You shall not go by the train," said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword. The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking. "You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken, doddering, damned fool!" he said without taking breath. "You great silly, pink-faced, towheaded turnip! You" "You shall not go by this train," repeated Syme. "And why the infernal blazes," roared the other, "should I want to go by the train?" "We know all," said the Professor sternly. "You are going to Paris to throw a bomb!" "Going to Jericho to throw a Jabberwock!" cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily. "Have you all got softening of the brain, that you don't realise what I am? Did you really think I wanted to catch that train? Twenty Paris trains might go by for me. Damn Paris trains!" "Then what did you care about?" began the Professor. "What did I care about? I didn't care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God! it has caught me." "I regret to inform you," said Syme with restraint, "that your remarks convey no impression to my mind. Perhaps if you were to remove the remains of your original forehead and some portion of what was once your chin, your meaning would become clearer. Mental lucidity fulfils itself in many ways. What	stuck his spade into the ground. Yet the Marquis sprang back from the stroke without a stagger, and Syme stood staring at his own sword-point like an idiot. There was no blood on it at all. There was an instant of rigid silence, and then Syme in his turn fell furiously on the other, filled with a flaming curiosity. The Marquis was probably, in a general sense, a better fencer than he, as he had surmised at the beginning, but at the moment the Marquis seemed distraught and at a disadvantage. He fought wildly and even weakly, and he constantly looked away at the railway line, almost as if he feared the train more than the pointed steel. Syme, on the other hand, fought fiercely but still carefully, in an intellectual fury, eager to solve the riddle of his own bloodless sword. For this purpose, he aimed less at the Marquis's body, and more at his throat and head. A minute and a half afterwards he felt his point enter the man's neck below the jaw. It came out clean. Half mad, he thrust again, and made what should have been a bloody scar on the Marquis's cheek. But there was no scar. For one moment the heaven of Syme again grew black with supernatural terrors. Surely the man had a charmed life. But this new spiritual dread was a more awful thing than had been the mere spiritual topsy-turvydom symbolised by the paralytic who pursued him. The Professor was only a goblin; this man was a devil perhaps he was the Devil! Anyhow, this was certain, that three times had a human sword been driven into him and made no mark. When Syme had that thought he drew himself up, and all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees. He thought of all the human things in his story of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl's red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by. Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation. "After all," he said to himself, "I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do I can die," and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train. He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train." "I protest that this is most irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don't be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!" and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill. Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand. He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still	The Man Who Was Thursday
"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."	Brett Ashley	it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I	idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just	you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?"	good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room.	face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of	do you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much." "Darling," she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business." "Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said. "This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them." "What's his name?" asked Brett. "Veuve Cliquot?" "No," said the count. "Mumms. He's a baron." "Isn't it wonderful," said Brett. "We all have titles. Why haven't you a title, Jake?" "I assure you, sir," the count put his hand on my arm. "It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money." "Oh, I don't know. It's damned useful sometimes," Brett said. "I've never known it to do me any good." "You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own amount of credit on mine." "Do sit down, count," I said. "Let me take that stick." The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gas-light. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. "I say, Jake, I don't want to ruin your rugs. Can't you give a chap an ash-tray?" I found some ash-trays and spread them	in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home, chez Barnes. One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings. I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the _France_. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the door-bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses. "Hello, darling," said Brett. "Aren't you going to let us in?" "Come on. I was just bathing." "Aren't you the fortunate man. Bathing." "Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?" "I don't know whether you like flowers, sir," the count said, "but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses." "Here, give them to me." Brett took them. "Get me some water in this, Jake." I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room table. "I say. We have had a day." "You don't remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?" "No. Did we have one? I must have been blind." "You were quite drunk, my dear," said the count. "Wasn't I, though? And the count's been a brick, absolutely." "You've got hell's own drag with the concierge now." "I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs." "Don't be a damned fool." "His," she said, and nodded at the count. "I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late." "He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's happened." "So do you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much." "Darling," she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business." "Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said. "This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them." "What's his name?" asked Brett. "Veuve Cliquot?" "No," said the count. "Mumms. He's a baron." "Isn't it wonderful," said Brett. "We all have titles. Why haven't you a title, Jake?" "I assure you, sir," the count put his hand on my arm. "It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money." "Oh, I don't know. It's damned useful sometimes," Brett said. "I've never known it to do me any good." "You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own amount of credit on mine." "Do sit down, count," I said. "Let me take that stick." The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gas-light. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. "I say, Jake, I don't want to ruin your rugs. Can't you give a chap an ash-tray?" I found some ash-trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. "Put two bottles in it, Henry," the count called. "Anything else, sir?" "No. Wait down in the car." He turned to Brett and to me. "We'll want to ride out to the Bois for dinner?" "If you like," Brett said. "I couldn't eat a thing." "I always like a good meal," said the count. "Should I bring the wine in, sir?" asked the chauffeur. "Yes. Bring it in, Henry," said the count. He took out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title." "No. What a pity." "No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear.	a damned fool." "His," she said, and nodded at the count. "I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late." "He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's happened." "So do you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much." "Darling," she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business." "Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said. "This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them." "What's his name?" asked Brett. "Veuve Cliquot?" "No," said the count. "Mumms. He's a baron." "Isn't it wonderful," said Brett. "We all have titles. Why haven't you a title, Jake?" "I assure you, sir," the count put his hand on my arm. "It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money." "Oh, I don't know. It's damned useful sometimes," Brett said. "I've never known it to do me any good." "You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own amount of credit on mine." "Do sit down, count," I said. "Let me take that stick." The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gas-light. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. "I say, Jake, I don't want to ruin your rugs. Can't you give a chap an ash-tray?" I found some ash-trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. "Put two bottles in it, Henry," the count called. "Anything else, sir?" "No. Wait down in the car." He turned to Brett and to me. "We'll want to ride out to the Bois for dinner?" "If you like," Brett said. "I couldn't eat a thing." "I always like a good meal," said the count. "Should I bring the wine in, sir?" asked the chauffeur. "Yes. Bring it in, Henry," said the count. He took out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced,	The Sun Also Rises
"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."	Anne Steele	room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they	were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the	she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it	hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I	can t repeat such kind of things you know) she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman	nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that? He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that Oh, la! one can t repeat such kind of things you know) she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an t she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan t say anything against them to _you;_ and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good gracious!" (giggling as she spoke) "I d lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world. La! I shall say directly, I wonder how	it expedient to find her way back again to the first. "Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what they chuse about Mr. Ferrars s declaring he would not have Lucy, for it is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain." "I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you," said Elinor. "Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know, very well, and by more than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother s Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother s house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that? He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that Oh, la! one can t repeat such kind of things you know) she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an t she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan t say anything against them to _you;_ and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good gracious!" (giggling as she spoke) "I d lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world. La! I shall say directly, I wonder how you could think of such a thing? _I_ write to the Doctor, indeed!" "Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst. You have got your answer ready." Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made another more necessary. "Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton won t ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spotted muslin on! I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn." Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward s marriage with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be; every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance. As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. The	as he had went away from his mother s house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that? He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that Oh, la! one can t repeat such kind of things you know) she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an t she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan t say anything against them to _you;_ and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good gracious!" (giggling as she spoke) "I d lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world. La! I shall say directly,	Sense And Sensibility
“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”	Crimble	know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write	“I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while	which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a	offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the	She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even	enable you perhaps to join us in regarding the vexed question as settled.” His lordship, having faced this speech without a sign, rested on the speaker a somewhat more confessed intelligence, then looked hard at the offered note and hard at the floor--all to avert himself actively afterward and, with his head a good deal elevated, add to his distance, as it were, from every one and everything so indelicately thrust on his attention. This movement had an ambiguous makeshift air, yet his companions, under the impression of it, exchanged a hopeless look. His daughter none the less lifted her voice. “If you won’t take what he has for you from Mr. Crimble, father, will you take it from me?” And then as after some apparent debate he appeared to decide to heed her, “It may be so long again,” she said, “before you’ve a chance to do a thing I ask.” “The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly	level or seize my point. And if you really want to know,” Hugh went on in his gladness, “what for _us_ has most particularly and preciously taken place, it is that in his opinion, for my career--” “Your reputation,” she cried, “blazes out and your fortune’s made?” He did a happy violence to his modesty. “Well, Bardi adores intelligence and takes off his hat to me.” “Then you need take off yours to nobody!” --such was Lady Grace’s proud opinion. “But I should like to take off mine to _him_,” she added; “which I seem to have put on--to get out and away with you--expressly for that.” Hugh, as he looked her over, took it up in bliss. “Ah, we’ll go forth together to him then--thanks to your happy, splendid impulse!--and you’ll back him gorgeously up in the good he thinks of me.” His friend yet had on this a sombre second thought. “The only thing is that our awful American----!” But he warned her with a raised hand. “Not to speak of our awful Briton!” For the door had opened from the lobby, admitting Lord Theign, unattended, who, at sight of his daughter and her companion, pulled up and held them a minute in reprehensive view--all at least till Hugh undauntedly, indeed quite cheerfully, greeted him. “Since you find me again in your path, my lord, it’s because I’ve a small, but precious document to deliver you, if you’ll allow me to do so; which I feel it important myself to place in your hand.” He drew from his breast a pocket-book and extracted thence a small unsealed envelope; retaining the latter a trifle helplessly in his hand while Lord Theign only opposed to this demonstration an unmitigated blankness. He went none the less bravely on. “I mentioned to you the last time we somewhat infelicitously met that I intended to appeal to another and probably more closely qualified artistic authority on the subject of your so-called Moretto; and I in fact saw the picture half an hour ago with Bardi of Milan, who, there in presence of it, did absolute, did ideal justice, as I had hoped, to the claim I’ve been making. I then went with him to his hotel, close at hand, where he dashed me off this brief and rapid, but quite conclusive, Declaration, which, if you’ll be so good as to read it, will enable you perhaps to join us in regarding the vexed question as settled.” His lordship, having faced this speech without a sign, rested on the speaker a somewhat more confessed intelligence, then looked hard at the offered note and hard at the floor--all to avert himself actively afterward and, with his head a good deal elevated, add to his distance, as it were, from every one and everything so indelicately thrust on his attention. This movement had an ambiguous makeshift air, yet his companions, under the impression of it, exchanged a hopeless look. His daughter none the less lifted her voice. “If you won’t take what he has for you from Mr. Crimble, father, will you take it from me?” And then as after some apparent debate he appeared to decide to heed her, “It may be so long again,” she said, “before you’ve a chance to do a thing I ask.” “The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!” There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate “What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah,	me?” And then as after some apparent debate he appeared to decide to heed her, “It may be so long again,” she said, “before you’ve a chance to do a thing I ask.” “The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open	The Outcry
CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.	No speaker	for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you	at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he	off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was	All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic zones. The theory ran: "All unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30. They are not to blame,	that day the Europeans were putting aside their normal personalities and sinking themselves in their community. Pity, wrath, heroism, filled them, but the power of putting two and two together was annihilated. Terminating the interview, the Collector walked on to the platform. The confusion there was revolting. A chuprassi of Ronny's had been told to bring up some trifles belonging to the ladies, and was appropriating for himself various articles to which he had no right; he was a camp follower of the angry English. Mohammed Latif made no attempt to resist him. Hassan flung off his turban, and wept. All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic zones. The theory ran: "All unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have not a dog's chance we should be like them if we settled here." Born at Karachi, he seemed to contradict his theory, and would sometimes admit as much with a sad, quiet smile. "Another of them found out," he thought, as he set to work to draft his statement to the Magistrate. He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding. He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss Derek had herself driven in the Mudkul car about an hour ago, she and Miss Quested both in a terrible state. They had gone straight to his bungalow where he	McBryde, who had always been friendly to him, was on the whole sensible, and could, anyhow, be trusted to keep cool. "I came down particularly on your account while poor Heaslop got his mother away. I regarded it as the most friendly thing I could do. I meant to tell you that there will be an informal meeting at the club this evening to discuss the situation, but I am doubtful whether you will care to come. Your visits there are always infrequent." "I shall certainly come, sir, and I am most grateful to you for all the trouble you have taken over me. May I venture to ask where Miss Quested is." He replied with a gesture; she was ill. "Worse and worse, appalling," he said feelingly. But the Collector looked at him sternly, because he was keeping his head. He had not gone mad at the phrase "an English girl fresh from England," he had not rallied to the banner of race. He was still after facts, though the herd had decided on emotion. Nothing enrages Anglo-India more than the lantern of reason if it is exhibited for one moment after its extinction is decreed. All over Chandrapore that day the Europeans were putting aside their normal personalities and sinking themselves in their community. Pity, wrath, heroism, filled them, but the power of putting two and two together was annihilated. Terminating the interview, the Collector walked on to the platform. The confusion there was revolting. A chuprassi of Ronny's had been told to bring up some trifles belonging to the ladies, and was appropriating for himself various articles to which he had no right; he was a camp follower of the angry English. Mohammed Latif made no attempt to resist him. Hassan flung off his turban, and wept. All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic zones. The theory ran: "All unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have not a dog's chance we should be like them if we settled here." Born at Karachi, he seemed to contradict his theory, and would sometimes admit as much with a sad, quiet smile. "Another of them found out," he thought, as he set to work to draft his statement to the Magistrate. He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding. He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss Derek had herself driven in the Mudkul car about an hour ago, she and Miss Quested both in a terrible state. They had gone straight to his bungalow where he happened to be, and there and then he had taken down the charge and arranged for the arrest at the railway station. "What is the charge, precisely?" "That he followed her into the cave and made insulting advances. She hit at him with her field-glasses; he pulled at them and the strap broke, and that is how she got away. When we searched him just now, they were in his pocket." "Oh no, oh no, no; it'll be cleared up in five minutes," he cried again. "Have a look at them." The strap had been newly broken, the eye-piece was jammed. The logic of evidence said "Guilty." "Did she say any more?" "There was an echo that appears to have frightened her. Did you go into those caves?" "I saw one of them. There was an echo. Did it get on her nerves?" "I couldn't worry her overmuch with questions. She'll have plenty to go through in the witness-box. They don't bear thinking about, these next weeks. I wish the Marabar Hills and all they contain were at the bottom of the sea. Evening after evening one saw them from the club, and they were just a harmless name. .	what induced you to speak to me in such a tone?" "The news gave me a very great shock, so I must ask you to forgive me. I cannot believe that Dr. Aziz is guilty." He slammed his hand on the table. "That that is a repetition of your insult in an aggravated form." "If I may venture to say so, no," said Fielding, also going white, but sticking to his point. "I make no reflection on the good faith of the two ladies, but the charge they are bringing against Aziz rests upon some mistake, and five minutes will clear it up. The man's manner is perfectly natural; besides, I know him to be incapable of infamy." "It does indeed rest upon a mistake," came the thin, biting voice of the other. "It does indeed. I have had twenty-five years' experience of this country" he paused, and "twenty-five years" seemed to fill the waiting-room with their staleness and ungenerosity "and during those twenty-five years I have never known anything but disaster result when English people and Indians attempt to be intimate socially. Intercourse, yes. Courtesy, by all means. Intimacy never, never. The whole weight of my authority is against it. I have been in charge at Chandrapore for six years, and if everything has gone smoothly, if there has been mutual respect and esteem, it is because both peoples kept to this simple rule. New-comers set our traditions aside, and in an instant what you see happens, the work of years is undone and the good name of my District ruined for a generation. I I can't see the end of this day's work, Mr. Fielding. You, who are imbued with modern ideas no doubt you can. I wish I had never lived to see its beginning, I know that. It is the end of me. That a lady, that a young lady engaged to my most valued subordinate that she an English girl fresh from England that I should have lived" Involved in his own emotions, he broke down. What he had said was both dignified and pathetic, but had it anything to do with Aziz? Nothing at all, if Fielding was right. It is impossible to regard a tragedy from two points of view, and whereas Turton had decided to avenge the girl, he hoped to save the man. He wanted to get away and talk to McBryde, who had always been friendly to him, was on the whole sensible, and could, anyhow, be trusted to keep cool. "I came down particularly on your account while poor Heaslop got his mother away. I regarded it as the most friendly thing I could do. I meant to tell you that there will be an informal meeting at the club this evening to discuss the situation, but I am doubtful whether you will care to come. Your visits there are always infrequent." "I shall certainly come, sir, and I am most grateful to you for all the trouble you have taken over me. May I venture to ask where Miss Quested is." He replied with a gesture; she was ill. "Worse and worse, appalling," he said feelingly. But the Collector looked at him sternly, because he was keeping his head. He had not gone mad at the phrase "an English girl fresh from England," he had not rallied to the banner of race. He was still after facts, though the herd had decided on emotion. Nothing enrages Anglo-India more than the lantern of reason if it is exhibited for one moment after its extinction is decreed. All over Chandrapore that day the Europeans were putting aside their normal personalities and sinking themselves in their community. Pity, wrath, heroism, filled them, but the power of putting two and two together was annihilated. Terminating the interview, the Collector walked on to the platform. The confusion there was revolting. A chuprassi of Ronny's had been told to bring up some trifles belonging to the ladies, and was appropriating for himself various articles to which he had no right; he was a camp follower of the angry English. Mohammed Latif made no attempt to resist him. Hassan flung off his turban, and wept. All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic zones. The theory ran: "All unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have not a dog's chance we should be like them if we settled here." Born at Karachi, he seemed to contradict his theory, and would sometimes admit as much with a sad, quiet smile. "Another of them found out," he thought, as he set to work to draft his statement to the Magistrate. He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding. He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss Derek had herself driven in the Mudkul car about an hour ago, she and Miss Quested both in a terrible state. They had gone straight to his bungalow where he happened to be, and there and then he had taken down the charge and arranged for the arrest at the railway station. "What is the charge, precisely?" "That he followed her into the cave and made insulting advances. She hit at him with her field-glasses; he pulled at them and the strap broke, and that is how she got away. When we searched him just now, they were in his pocket." "Oh no, oh no, no; it'll be cleared up in five minutes," he cried again. "Have a look at them." The strap had been newly broken, the eye-piece was jammed. The logic of evidence said "Guilty." "Did she say any more?" "There was an echo that appears to have frightened her. Did you go into those caves?" "I saw one of them. There was an echo. Did it get on her nerves?" "I couldn't worry her overmuch with questions. She'll have plenty to go through in the witness-box. They don't bear thinking about, these next weeks. I wish the Marabar Hills and all they contain were at the bottom of the sea. Evening after evening one saw them from the club, and they were just a harmless name. . . . Yes, we start already." For a visiting card was brought; Vakil Mahmoud Ali, legal adviser to the prisoner, asked to be allowed to see him. McBryde sighed, gave permission, and continued: "I heard some more from Miss Derek she is an old friend of us both and talks freely; well her account is that you went off to locate the camp, and almost at once she heard stones falling on the Kawa Dol and saw Miss Quested running straight down the face of a precipice. Well. She climbed up a sort of gully to her, and found her practically done for her helmet off" "Was a guide not with her?" interrupted Fielding. "No. She had got among some cactuses. Miss Derek saved her life coming just then she was beginning to fling herself about. She helped her down to the car. Miss Quested couldn't stand the Indian driver, cried," Keep him away' "and it was that that put our friend on the track of what had happened. They made straight for our bungalow, and are there now. That's the story as far as I know it yet. She sent the driver to join you. I think she behaved with great sense." "I suppose there's no possibility of my seeing Miss Quested?" he asked suddenly. "I hardly think that would do. Surely." "I was afraid you'ld say that. I should very much like to." "She is in no state to see anyone. Besides, you don't know her well." "Hardly at all. . . . But you see I believe she's under some hideous delusion, and that that wretched boy is innocent." The policeman started in surprise, and a shadow passed over his face, for he could not bear his dispositions to be upset. "I had no idea that was in your mind," he said, and looked for support at the signed deposition, which lay before him. "Those field-glasses upset me for a minute, but I've thought since: it's impossible that, having attempted to assault her, he would put her glasses into his pocket." "Quite possible, I'm afraid; when an Indian goes bad, he goes not only very bad, but very queer." "I don't follow." "How should you? When you think of crime you think of English crime. The psychology here is different. I dare say you'll tell me next that he was quite normal when he came down from	the phrase "an English girl fresh from England," he had not rallied to the banner of race. He was still after facts, though the herd had decided on emotion. Nothing enrages Anglo-India more than the lantern of reason if it is exhibited for one moment after its extinction is decreed. All over Chandrapore that day the Europeans were putting aside their normal personalities and sinking themselves in their community. Pity, wrath, heroism, filled them, but the power of putting two and two together was annihilated. Terminating the interview, the Collector walked on to the platform. The confusion there was revolting. A chuprassi of Ronny's had been told to bring up some trifles belonging to the ladies, and was appropriating for himself various articles to which he had no right; he was a camp follower of the angry English. Mohammed Latif made no attempt to resist him. Hassan flung off his turban, and wept. All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic zones. The theory ran: "All unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have not a dog's chance we should be like them if we settled here." Born at Karachi, he seemed to contradict his theory, and would sometimes admit as much with a sad, quiet smile. "Another of them found out," he thought, as he set to work to draft his statement to the Magistrate. He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding. He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss Derek had herself driven in the Mudkul car about an hour ago, she and Miss Quested both in a terrible state. They had gone straight to his bungalow where he happened to be, and there and then he had taken down the charge and arranged for the arrest at the railway station. "What is the charge, precisely?" "That he followed her into the cave and made insulting advances. She hit at him with her field-glasses; he pulled at them and the strap broke, and that is how she got away. When we searched him just now, they were in his pocket." "Oh no, oh no, no; it'll be cleared up in five minutes," he cried again. "Have a look at them." The strap had been newly broken, the eye-piece was jammed. The logic of evidence said "Guilty." "Did she say any more?" "There was an echo that appears to have frightened her. Did you go into those caves?" "I saw one of them. There was an echo. Did it get on her nerves?" "I couldn't worry her overmuch with questions. She'll have plenty to go through in the witness-box. They don't bear thinking about, these next weeks. I wish the Marabar Hills and all they contain were at the bottom of the sea. Evening	A Passage To India
Bill said,	No speaker	bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to."	on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting	a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me.	gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of	It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing out the worst in anybody. After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill. We went inside the station and stood with a crowd of people just back of the gates, and the train came in and stopped, and everybody started coming out through the gates. They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody had gone through and out of the station and gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway. "Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow	and hard, and I crossed over beside some buildings, and walked back along side-streets to the hotel. At dinner that night we found that Robert Cohn had taken a bath, had had a shave and a haircut and a shampoo, and something put on his hair afterward to make it stay down. He was nervous, and I did not try to help him any. The train was due in at nine o'clock from San Sebastian, and, if Brett and Mike were coming, they would be on it. At twenty minutes to nine we were not half through dinner. Robert Cohn got up from the table and said he would go to the station. I said I would go with him, just to devil him. Bill said he would be damned if he would leave his dinner. I said we would be right back. We walked to the station. I was enjoying Cohn's nervousness. I hoped Brett would be on the train. At the station the train was late, and we sat on a baggage-truck and waited outside in the dark. I have never seen a man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn--nor as eager. I was enjoying it. It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing out the worst in anybody. After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill. We went inside the station and stood with a crowd of people just back of the gates, and the train came in and stopped, and everybody started coming out through the gates. They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody had gone through and out of the station and gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway. "Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow night." There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train and the one we had just met. "That sounds like a good idea," Cohn said. "The sooner we get on the stream the better." "It's all one to me when we start," Bill said. "The sooner the better." We sat in the Iru a for a while and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bull-ring and across the field and under the trees at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the river in the dark, and I turned in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the caf quite late, I believe, because I was asleep when they came in. In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Burguete. It was scheduled to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Iru a reading the papers when I saw Robert Cohn coming across the square. He came up to the table and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. "This is a comfortable caf ," he said. "Did you have a good night, Jake?" "I slept like a	off my coat. "You must have been in a motor-car," he said. The back of the collar and the upper part of the shoulders were gray with dust. "From Bayonne." "Well, well," he said. "I knew you were in a motor-car from the way the dust was." So I gave him two copper coins. At the end of the street I saw the cathedral and walked up toward it. The first time I ever saw it I thought the fa ade was ugly but I liked it now. I went inside. It was dim and dark and the pillars went high up, and there were people praying, and it smelt of incense, and there were some wonderful big windows. I knelt and started to pray and prayed for everybody I thought of, Brett and Mike and Bill and Robert Cohn and myself, and all the bull-fighters, separately for the ones I liked, and lumping all the rest, then I prayed for myself again, and while I was praying for myself I found I was getting sleepy, so I prayed that the bull-fights would be good, and that it would be a fine fiesta, and that we would get some fishing. I wondered if there was anything else I might pray for, and I thought I would like to have some money, so I prayed that I would make a lot of money, and then I started to think how I would make it, and thinking of making money reminded me of the count, and I started wondering about where he was, and regretting I hadn't seen him since that night in Montmartre, and about something funny Brett told me about him, and as all the time I was kneeling with my forehead on the wood in front of me, and was thinking of myself as praying, I was a little ashamed, and regretted that I was such a rotten Catholic, but realized there was nothing I could do about it, at least for a while, and maybe never, but that anyway it was a grand religion, and I only wished I felt religious and maybe I would the next time; and then I was out in the hot sun on the steps of the cathedral, and the forefingers and the thumb of my right hand were still damp, and I felt them dry in the sun. The sunlight was hot and hard, and I crossed over beside some buildings, and walked back along side-streets to the hotel. At dinner that night we found that Robert Cohn had taken a bath, had had a shave and a haircut and a shampoo, and something put on his hair afterward to make it stay down. He was nervous, and I did not try to help him any. The train was due in at nine o'clock from San Sebastian, and, if Brett and Mike were coming, they would be on it. At twenty minutes to nine we were not half through dinner. Robert Cohn got up from the table and said he would go to the station. I said I would go with him, just to devil him. Bill said he would be damned if he would leave his dinner. I said we would be right back. We walked to the station. I was enjoying Cohn's nervousness. I hoped Brett would be on the train. At the station the train was late, and we sat on a baggage-truck and waited outside in the dark. I have never seen a man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn--nor as eager. I was enjoying it. It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing out the worst in anybody. After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill. We went inside the station and stood with a crowd of people just back of the gates, and the train came in and stopped, and everybody started coming out through the gates. They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody had gone through and out of the station and gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway. "Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow night." There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train and the one we had just met. "That sounds like a good idea," Cohn said. "The sooner we get on the stream the better." "It's all one to me when we start," Bill said. "The sooner the better." We sat in the Iru a for a while and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bull-ring and across the field and under the trees at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the river in the dark, and I turned in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the caf quite late, I believe, because I was asleep when they came in. In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Burguete. It was scheduled to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Iru a reading the papers when I saw Robert Cohn coming across the square. He came up to the table and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. "This is a comfortable caf ," he said. "Did you have a good night, Jake?" "I slept like a log." "I didn't sleep very well. Bill and I were out late, too." "Where were you?" "Here. And after it shut we went over to that other caf . The old man there speaks German and English." "The Caf Suizo." "That's it. He seems like a nice old fellow. I think it's a better caf than this one." "It's not so good in the daytime," I said. "Too hot. By the way, I got the bus tickets." "I'm not going up to-day. You and Bill go on ahead." "I've got your ticket." "Give it to me. I'll get the money back." "It's five pesetas." Robert Cohn took out a silver five-peseta piece and gave it to me. "I ought to stay," he said. "You see I'm afraid there's some sort of misunderstanding." "Why," I said. "They may not come here for three or four days now if they start on parties at San Sebastian." "That's just it," said Robert. "I'm afraid they expected to meet me at San Sebastian, and that's why they stopped over." "What makes you think that?" "Well, I wrote suggesting it to Brett." "Why in hell didn't you stay there and meet them then?" I started to say, but I stopped. I thought that idea would come to him by itself, but I do not believe it ever did. He was being confidential now and it was giving him pleasure to be able to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him and Brett. "Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch," I said. "I wish I could go. We've been looking forward to this fishing all winter." He was being sentimental about it. "But I ought to stay. I really ought. As soon as they come I'll bring them right up." "Let's find Bill." "I want to go over to the barber-shop." "See you at lunch." I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving. "Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night," Bill said. "He's a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian." "The lying bastard!" "Oh, no," said Bill. "Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow, anyway?" "Don't rub it in." Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror	and Mike were coming, they would be on it. At twenty minutes to nine we were not half through dinner. Robert Cohn got up from the table and said he would go to the station. I said I would go with him, just to devil him. Bill said he would be damned if he would leave his dinner. I said we would be right back. We walked to the station. I was enjoying Cohn's nervousness. I hoped Brett would be on the train. At the station the train was late, and we sat on a baggage-truck and waited outside in the dark. I have never seen a man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn--nor as eager. I was enjoying it. It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing out the worst in anybody. After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill. We went inside the station and stood with a crowd of people just back of the gates, and the train came in and stopped, and everybody started coming out through the gates. They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody had gone through and out of the station and gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway. "Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow night." There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train and the one we had just met. "That sounds like a good idea," Cohn said. "The sooner we get on the stream the better." "It's all one to me when we start," Bill said. "The sooner the better." We sat in the Iru a for a while and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bull-ring and across the field and under the trees at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the river in the dark, and I turned in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the caf quite late, I believe, because I was asleep when they came in. In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Burguete. It was scheduled to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Iru a reading the papers when	The Sun Also Rises
She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.	No speaker	"What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I	don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said.	Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has	something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise." Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me." "Hush, hush!..." he muttered. He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing. Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its	now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There must be a different sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live!... I was fired by curiosity ... you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise." Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me." "Hush, hush!..." he muttered. He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing. Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it. They found a cab and drove to Oreanda. "I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the board--Von Diderits," said Gurov. "Is your husband a German?" "No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox Russian himself." At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was	very grave, as though it were her fall--so it seemed, and it was strange and inappropriate. Her face dropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair hung down mournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like "the woman who was a sinner" in an old-fashioned picture. "It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now." There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and began eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour of silence. Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good, simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning on the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was very unhappy. "How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you are saying." "God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. "It's awful." "You seem to feel you need to be forgiven." "Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't attempt to justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have deceived. And not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There must be a different sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live!... I was fired by curiosity ... you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise." Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me." "Hush, hush!..." he muttered. He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing. Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it. They found a cab and drove to Oreanda. "I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the board--Von Diderits," said Gurov. "Is your husband a German?" "No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox Russian himself." At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings--the sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky--Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence. A man walked up to them--probably a keeper--looked at them and walked away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw a steamer	about before it reached the groyne. Anna Sergeyevna looked through her lorgnette at the steamer and the passengers as though looking for acquaintances, and when she turned to Gurov her eyes were shining. She talked a great deal and asked disconnected questions, forgetting next moment what she had asked; then she dropped her lorgnette in the crush. The festive crowd began to disperse; it was too dark to see people's faces. The wind had completely dropped, but Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna still stood as though waiting to see some one else come from the steamer. Anna Sergeyevna was silent now, and sniffed the flowers without looking at Gurov. "The weather is better this evening," he said. "Where shall we go now? Shall we drive somewhere?" She made no answer. Then he looked at her intently, and all at once put his arm round her and kissed her on the lips, and breathed in the moisture and the fragrance of the flowers; and he immediately looked round him, anxiously wondering whether any one had seen them. "Let us go to your hotel," he said softly. And both walked quickly. The room was close and smelt of the scent she had bought at the Japanese shop. Gurov looked at her and thought: "What different people one meets in the world!" From the past he preserved memories of careless, good-natured women, who loved cheerfully and were grateful to him for the happiness he gave them, however brief it might be; and of women like his wife who loved without any genuine feeling, with superfluous phrases, affectedly, hysterically, with an expression that suggested that it was not love nor passion, but something more significant; and of two or three others, very beautiful, cold women, on whose faces he had caught a glimpse of a rapacious expression--an obstinate desire to snatch from life more than it could give, and these were capricious, unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in their first youth, and when Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, and the lace on their linen seemed to him like scales. But in this case there was still the diffidence, the angularity of inexperienced youth, an awkward feeling; and there was a sense of consternation as though some one had suddenly knocked at the door. The attitude of Anna Sergeyevna-- "the lady with the dog" --to what had happened was somehow peculiar, very grave, as though it were her fall--so it seemed, and it was strange and inappropriate. Her face dropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair hung down mournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like "the woman who was a sinner" in an old-fashioned picture. "It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now." There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and began eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour of silence. Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good, simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning on the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was very unhappy. "How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you are saying." "God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. "It's awful." "You seem to feel you need to be forgiven." "Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't attempt to justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have deceived. And not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There must be a different sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live!... I was fired by curiosity ... you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise." Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me." "Hush, hush!..." he muttered. He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing. Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it. They found a cab and drove to Oreanda. "I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the board--Von Diderits," said Gurov. "Is your husband a German?" "No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox Russian himself." At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings--the sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky--Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence. A man walked up to them--probably a keeper--looked at them and walked away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw a steamer come from Theodosia, with its lights out in the glow of dawn. "There is dew on the grass," said Anna Sergeyevna, after a silence. "Yes. It's time to go home." They went back to the town. Then they met every day at twelve o'clock on the sea-front, lunched and dined together, went for walks, admired the sea. She complained that she slept badly, that her heart throbbed violently; asked the same questions, troubled now by jealousy and now by the fear that he did not respect her sufficiently. And often in the square or gardens, when there was no one near them, he suddenly drew her to him and kissed her passionately. Complete idleness, these kisses in broad daylight while he looked round in dread of some one's seeing them, the heat, the smell of the sea, and the continual passing to and fro before him of idle, well-dressed, well-fed people, made a new man of him; he told Anna Sergeyevna how beautiful she was, how fascinating. He was impatiently passionate, he would not move a step away from her, while she was often pensive and continually urged him to confess that he did not respect her, did not love her in the least, and thought of her as nothing but a common woman. Rather late almost every evening they drove somewhere out of town, to Oreanda or to the waterfall; and the expedition was always a success, the scenery invariably impressed them as grand and beautiful. They were expecting her husband to come, but a letter came from him, saying that there was something wrong with his eyes, and he entreated his wife to come home as quickly as possible. Anna Sergeyevna made haste to go. "It's a good thing I am going away," she said to Gurov. "It's the finger of destiny!" She went by coach and he went with her. They were driving the whole day. When she had got into a compartment of the express, and when the second bell had rung, she said: "Let me look at you once more ... look at you once again. That's right." She did not shed tears, but was so sad that she seemed ill, and her face was quivering. "I shall remember you ... think of you," she said. "God be with you; be happy. Don't remember evil against me. We are parting forever--it must be so, for	she mused in a dejected attitude like "the woman who was a sinner" in an old-fashioned picture. "It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now." There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and began eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour of silence. Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good, simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning on the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was very unhappy. "How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you are saying." "God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. "It's awful." "You seem to feel you need to be forgiven." "Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't attempt to justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have deceived. And not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There must be a different sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live!... I was fired by curiosity ... you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise." Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me." "Hush, hush!..." he muttered. He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing. Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it. They found a cab and drove to Oreanda. "I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the board--Von Diderits," said Gurov. "Is your husband a German?" "No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox Russian himself." At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings--the sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky--Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence. A man walked up to them--probably a keeper--looked at them and walked away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw a steamer come from Theodosia, with its lights out in the glow of dawn. "There is dew on the grass," said Anna Sergeyevna, after a silence. "Yes. It's time to go home." They went back to the town. Then they met every day at twelve o'clock on the sea-front, lunched and dined together, went for walks, admired the sea. She complained that she slept badly, that her heart throbbed violently; asked the same questions, troubled now by jealousy and now by the fear that he did not respect her sufficiently. And often in the square or gardens, when there was no one near them, he suddenly drew her to him and kissed her passionately. Complete idleness, these kisses in broad daylight while he looked round in dread of some one's seeing them, the heat, the smell of the sea, and the continual passing to and fro before him of idle, well-dressed, well-fed people, made a new man of him; he told Anna Sergeyevna how beautiful she	The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (1)
"I've meant to get over,"	Krum	this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how	isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a	taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all	of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little	in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the	down the Boulevard to the rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock. Students went by going up to the law school, or down to the Sorbonne. The Boulevard was busy with trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and rode down to the Madeleine, standing on the back platform. From the Madeleine I walked along the Boulevard des Capucines to the Op ra, and up to my office. I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys. I stepped aside to avoid walking into the thread with which his girl assistant manipulated the boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread in her folded hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley,	go to Cannes with him. Told him I knew too many people in Cannes. Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people in Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So I asked him to bring me here." She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass raised. "Don't look like that," she said. "Told him I was in love with you. True, too. Don't look like that. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-morrow night. Like to go?" "Why not?" "I'd better go now." "Why?" "Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street." "The count?" "Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. Got it all at Zelli's. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt you?" "I have to work in the morning," I said. "I'm too far behind you now to catch up and be any fun." "Don't be an ass." "Can't do it." "Right. Send him a tender message?" "Anything. Absolutely." "Good night, darling." "Don't be sentimental." "You make me ill." We kissed good night and Brett shivered. "I'd better go," she said. "Good night, darling." "You don't have to go." "Yes." We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the concierge muttered something behind her door. I went back up-stairs and from the open window watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine drawn up to the curb under the arc-light. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed, and got into bed. This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing. CHAPTER 5 In the morning I walked down the Boulevard to the rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock. Students went by going up to the law school, or down to the Sorbonne. The Boulevard was busy with trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and rode down to the Madeleine, standing on the back platform. From the Madeleine I walked along the Boulevard des Capucines to the Op ra, and up to my office. I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys. I stepped aside to avoid walking into the thread with which his girl assistant manipulated the boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread in her folded hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said. "She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?" "She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight." "She's very nice." "I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding." "You sound as though you liked her pretty well." "I do. I shouldn't wonder if I were in love with her." "She's a drunk," I said. "She's in love with Mike Campbell, and she's going to marry him. He's going to be rich as hell some day." "I don't believe she'll ever marry him." "Why not?" "I don't know. I just don't believe it. Have you known her a long time?" "Yes," I said. "She was a V. A. D. in a hospital I was in during the war." "She must have been just a kid then." "She's thirty-four now." "When did she marry Ashley?" "During the war. Her own true love had just kicked off with the dysentery." "You talk sort of bitter." "Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to give you the facts." "I don't believe she would marry anybody she didn't love." "Well," I said. "She's done it twice." "I don't believe it." "Well," I said, "don't ask me a lot of fool questions if you don't like the answers." "I didn't ask you that." "You asked me what I knew about Brett Ashley." "I didn't ask you to insult her." "Oh, go to hell." He stood up from the table his face white, and stood there white and angry behind the little plates of hors d'oeuvres. "Sit down," I said. "Don't be a fool." "You've got to take that back." "Oh, cut out the prep-school stuff." "Take it back." "Sure. Anything. I never heard of Brett Ashley. How's that?" "No. Not that. About me going to hell." "Oh, don't go to hell," I said. "Stick around. We're just starting lunch." Cohn smiled again and sat down. He seemed glad to sit down. What the hell would he have done if he hadn't sat down? "You say such damned insulting things, Jake." "I'm sorry. I've got a nasty tongue. I never mean it when I say nasty things." "I know it,"	folded hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said. "She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?" "She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight." "She's very nice." "I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding." "You sound as though	The Sun Also Rises
"Now it is time to make preparations to go."	Tony Last	Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The	the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a	no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could,	was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no	crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is	remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my	them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive	And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had	A Handful Of Dust
A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:	No speaker	to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there	yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went	I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up	said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we	aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I	business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete.	truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions. “Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.” “I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.” Tom turned to Daisy sharply. “You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?” “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes” —but there was no laughter in his eyes— “to think that you didn’t know.” “Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.” “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head. “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back,	the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to	The Great Gatsby
he said;	No speaker	"The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily;	her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order.	concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient	this was the heiress of the five huge buildings. "I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening." He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a	say it is nerves; when she was a little girl she was scrofulous, and the doctors drove it inwards, so I think it may be due to that." They went to see the invalid. Fully grown up, big and tall, but ugly like her mother, with the same little eyes and disproportionate breadth of the lower part of the face, lying with her hair in disorder, muffled up to the chin, she made upon Korolyov at the first minute the impression of a poor, destitute creature, sheltered and cared for here out of charity, and he could hardly believe that this was the heiress of the five huge buildings. "I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening." He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a soft, suffering expression which was intelligent and touching: she seemed to him altogether graceful, feminine, and simple; and he longed to soothe her, not with drugs, not with advice, but with simple, kindly words. Her mother put her arms round her head and hugged her. What despair, what grief was in the old woman's face! She, her mother, had reared her and brought her up, spared nothing, and devoted her whole life to having her daughter taught French, dancing, music: had engaged a dozen teachers for her; had consulted the best doctors, kept a governess. And now she could not	stood a personage with short hair and a pince-nez; she was wearing a blouse of many colours, and was very thin and no longer young. The servants called her Christina Dmitryevna, and Korolyov guessed that this was the governess. Probably, as the person of most education in the house, she had been charged to meet and receive the doctor, for she began immediately, in great haste, stating the causes of the illness, giving trivial and tiresome details, but without saying who was ill or what was the matter. The doctor and the governess were sitting talking while the lady of the house stood motionless at the door, waiting. From the conversation Korolyov learned that the patient was Madame Lyalikov's only daughter and heiress, a girl of twenty, called Liza; she had been ill for a long time, and had consulted various doctors, and the previous night she had suffered till morning from such violent palpitations of the heart, that no one in the house had slept, and they had been afraid she might die. "She has been, one may say, ailing from a child," said Christina Dmitryevna in a sing-song voice, continually wiping her lips with her hand. "The doctors say it is nerves; when she was a little girl she was scrofulous, and the doctors drove it inwards, so I think it may be due to that." They went to see the invalid. Fully grown up, big and tall, but ugly like her mother, with the same little eyes and disproportionate breadth of the lower part of the face, lying with her hair in disorder, muffled up to the chin, she made upon Korolyov at the first minute the impression of a poor, destitute creature, sheltered and cared for here out of charity, and he could hardly believe that this was the heiress of the five huge buildings. "I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening." He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a soft, suffering expression which was intelligent and touching: she seemed to him altogether graceful, feminine, and simple; and he longed to soothe her, not with drugs, not with advice, but with simple, kindly words. Her mother put her arms round her head and hugged her. What despair, what grief was in the old woman's face! She, her mother, had reared her and brought her up, spared nothing, and devoted her whole life to having her daughter taught French, dancing, music: had engaged a dozen teachers for her; had consulted the best doctors, kept a governess. And now she could not make out the reason of these tears, why there was all this misery, she could not understand, and was bewildered; and she had a guilty, agitated, despairing expression, as though she had omitted something very important, had left something undone, had neglected to call in somebody--and whom, she did not know. "Lizanka, you are crying again ... again," she said, hugging her daughter to her. "My own, my darling, my child, tell me what it is! Have pity on me! Tell me." Both wept bitterly. Korolyov sat down on the side of the bed and took Liza's hand. "Come, give over; it's no use crying," he said kindly. "Why, there is nothing in the world that is worth those tears. Come, we won't cry; that's no good...." And inwardly he thought: "It's high time she was married...." "Our doctor at the factory gave her kalibromati," said the governess, "but I notice it only makes her worse. I should have thought that if she is given anything for the heart it ought to be drops.... I forget the name.... Convallaria, isn't it?" And there followed all sorts of details. She interrupted the doctor, preventing his speaking, and there was a look	birch-trees, and the quiet atmosphere all around, when the fields and woods and the sun seemed preparing, like the workpeople now on the eve of the holiday, to rest, and perhaps to pray.... He was born and had grown up in Moscow; he did not know the country, and he had never taken any interest in factories, or been inside one, but he had happened to read about factories, and had been in the houses of manufacturers and had talked to them; and whenever he saw a factory far or near, he always thought how quiet and peaceable it was outside, but within there was always sure to be impenetrable ignorance and dull egoism on the side of the owners, wearisome, unhealthy toil on the side of the workpeople, squabbling, vermin, vodka. And now when the workpeople timidly and respectfully made way for the carriage, in their faces, their caps, their walk, he read physical impurity, drunkenness, nervous exhaustion, bewilderment. They drove in at the factory gates. On each side he caught glimpses of the little houses of workpeople, of the faces of women, of quilts and linen on the railings. "Look out!" shouted the coachman, not pulling up the horses. It was a wide courtyard without grass, with five immense blocks of buildings with tall chimneys a little distance one from another, warehouses and barracks, and over everything a sort of grey powder as though from dust. Here and there, like oases in the desert, there were pitiful gardens, and the green and red roofs of the houses in which the managers and clerks lived. The coachman suddenly pulled up the horses, and the carriage stopped at the house, which had been newly painted grey; here was a flower garden, with a lilac bush covered with dust, and on the yellow steps at the front door there was a strong smell of paint. "Please come in, doctor," said women's voices in the passage and the entry, and at the same time he heard sighs and whisperings. "Pray walk in.... We've been expecting you so long ... we're in real trouble. Here, this way." Madame Lyalikov--a stout elderly lady wearing a black silk dress with fashionable sleeves, but, judging from her face, a simple uneducated woman--looked at the doctor in a flutter, and could not bring herself to hold out her hand to him; she did not dare. Beside her stood a personage with short hair and a pince-nez; she was wearing a blouse of many colours, and was very thin and no longer young. The servants called her Christina Dmitryevna, and Korolyov guessed that this was the governess. Probably, as the person of most education in the house, she had been charged to meet and receive the doctor, for she began immediately, in great haste, stating the causes of the illness, giving trivial and tiresome details, but without saying who was ill or what was the matter. The doctor and the governess were sitting talking while the lady of the house stood motionless at the door, waiting. From the conversation Korolyov learned that the patient was Madame Lyalikov's only daughter and heiress, a girl of twenty, called Liza; she had been ill for a long time, and had consulted various doctors, and the previous night she had suffered till morning from such violent palpitations of the heart, that no one in the house had slept, and they had been afraid she might die. "She has been, one may say, ailing from a child," said Christina Dmitryevna in a sing-song voice, continually wiping her lips with her hand. "The doctors say it is nerves; when she was a little girl she was scrofulous, and the doctors drove it inwards, so I think it may be due to that." They went to see the invalid. Fully grown up, big and tall, but ugly like her mother, with the same little eyes and disproportionate breadth of the lower part of the face, lying with her hair in disorder, muffled up to the chin, she made upon Korolyov at the first minute the impression of a poor, destitute creature, sheltered and cared for here out of charity, and he could hardly believe that this was the heiress of the five huge buildings. "I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening." He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a soft, suffering expression which was intelligent and touching: she seemed to him altogether graceful, feminine, and simple; and he longed to soothe her, not with drugs, not with advice, but with simple, kindly words. Her mother put her arms round her head and hugged her. What despair, what grief was in the old woman's face! She, her mother, had reared her and brought her up, spared nothing, and devoted her whole life to having her daughter taught French, dancing, music: had engaged a dozen teachers for her; had consulted the best doctors, kept a governess. And now she could not make out the reason of these tears, why there was all this misery, she could not understand, and was bewildered; and she had a guilty, agitated, despairing expression, as though she had omitted something very important, had left something undone, had neglected to call in somebody--and whom, she did not know. "Lizanka, you are crying again ... again," she said, hugging her daughter to her. "My own, my darling, my child, tell me what it is! Have pity on me! Tell me." Both wept bitterly. Korolyov sat down on the side of the bed and took Liza's hand. "Come, give over; it's no use crying," he said kindly. "Why, there is nothing in the world that is worth those tears. Come, we won't cry; that's no good...." And inwardly he thought: "It's high time she was married...." "Our doctor at the factory gave her kalibromati," said the governess, "but I notice it only makes her worse. I should have thought that if she is given anything for the heart it ought to be drops.... I forget the name.... Convallaria, isn't it?" And there followed all sorts of details. She interrupted the doctor, preventing his speaking, and there was a look of effort on her face, as though she supposed that, as the woman of most education in the house, she was duty bound to keep up a conversation with the doctor, and on no other subject but medicine. Korolyov felt bored. "I find nothing special the matter," he said, addressing the mother as he went out of the bedroom. "If your daughter is being attended by the factory doctor, let him go on attending her. The treatment so far has been perfectly correct, and I see no reason for changing your doctor. Why change? It's such an ordinary trouble; there's nothing seriously wrong." He spoke deliberately as he put on his gloves, while Madame Lyalikov stood without moving, and looked at him with her tearful eyes. "I have half an hour to catch the ten o'clock train," he said. "I hope I am not too late." "And can't you stay?" she asked, and tears trickled down her cheeks again. "I am ashamed to trouble you, but if you would be so good.... For God's sake," she went on in an undertone, glancing towards the door, "do stay to-night with us! She is all I have ... my only daughter.... She frightened me last night; I can't get over it.... Don't go away, for goodness' sake!..." He wanted to tell her that he had a great deal of work in Moscow, that his family were expecting him home; it was disagreeable to him to spend the evening and the whole night in a strange house quite needlessly; but he looked at her face, heaved a sigh, and began taking off his gloves without a word. All the lamps and candles were lighted in his honour in the drawing-room and the dining-room. He sat down at the piano and began turning over the music. Then he looked at the pictures on the walls, at the portraits. The pictures, oil-paintings in gold frames, were views of the Crimea--a stormy sea with a ship, a Catholic monk with a wineglass; they were all dull, smooth daubs, with no trace of talent in them. There was not a single good-looking face among the portraits, nothing but broad cheekbones and astonished-looking eyes. Lyalikov, Liza's father, had a low forehead and a self-satisfied expression; his uniform sat like a sack on his bulky plebeian figure; on his breast was a medal and a Red Cross Badge. There	governess were sitting talking while the lady of the house stood motionless at the door, waiting. From the conversation Korolyov learned that the patient was Madame Lyalikov's only daughter and heiress, a girl of twenty, called Liza; she had been ill for a long time, and had consulted various doctors, and the previous night she had suffered till morning from such violent palpitations of the heart, that no one in the house had slept, and they had been afraid she might die. "She has been, one may say, ailing from a child," said Christina Dmitryevna in a sing-song voice, continually wiping her lips with her hand. "The doctors say it is nerves; when she was a little girl she was scrofulous, and the doctors drove it inwards, so I think it may be due to that." They went to see the invalid. Fully grown up, big and tall, but ugly like her mother, with the same little eyes and disproportionate breadth of the lower part of the face, lying with her hair in disorder, muffled up to the chin, she made upon Korolyov at the first minute the impression of a poor, destitute creature, sheltered and cared for here out of charity, and he could hardly believe that this was the heiress of the five huge buildings. "I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening." He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a soft, suffering expression which was intelligent and touching: she seemed to him altogether graceful, feminine, and simple; and he longed to soothe her, not with drugs, not with advice, but with simple, kindly words. Her mother put her arms round her head and hugged her. What despair, what grief was in the old woman's face! She, her mother, had reared her and brought her up, spared nothing, and devoted her whole life to having her daughter taught French, dancing, music: had engaged a dozen teachers for her; had consulted the best doctors, kept a governess. And now she could not make out the reason of these tears, why there was all this misery, she could not understand, and was bewildered; and she had a guilty, agitated, despairing expression, as though she had omitted something very important, had left something undone, had neglected to call in somebody--and whom, she did not know. "Lizanka, you are crying again ... again," she said, hugging her daughter to her. "My own, my darling, my child, tell me what it is! Have pity on me! Tell me." Both wept bitterly. Korolyov sat down on the side of the bed and took Liza's hand. "Come, give over; it's no use crying," he said kindly. "Why, there is nothing in the world that is worth those tears. Come, we won't cry; that's no good...." And inwardly he thought: "It's high time she was married...." "Our doctor at the factory gave her kalibromati," said the governess, "but I notice it only makes her worse. I should have thought that if she is given anything for the heart it	The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (2)
he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.	No speaker	fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend	His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she	the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to	overlook his weakness and his callow vanity. "Look here," she said to him one day, "I guess you 'll have to be moving. There 's a young lady been inquiring for you to-day, and I won't stand for that." He looked at her, startled for a moment, until he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that	deem the woman less perfect. He knew that she was much older than he, but he only took this fact as an additional sign of his prowess in having won her. He was proud of himself when he went behind the scenes at the theatre or waited for her at the stage door and bore her off under the admiring eyes of a crowd of gapers. And Hattie? She liked him in a half-contemptuous, half-amused way. He was a good-looking boy and made money enough, as she expressed it, to show her a good time, so she was willing to overlook his weakness and his callow vanity. "Look here," she said to him one day, "I guess you 'll have to be moving. There 's a young lady been inquiring for you to-day, and I won't stand for that." He looked at her, startled for a moment, until he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that afternoon, after going to the barber-shop, Joe was driven by a tempest of conflicting emotions. If Minty Brown had not told his story, why not? Would she yet tell, and if she did, what would happen? He tortured himself by questioning if Hattie would cast him off. At the very thought his hand trembled, and the man in the chair asked him if he had n't been drinking. When he met Minty in the evening, however, the first glance at her reassured him. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she came forward and held out her hand. "Well, well,	the detestable coon ditties which the stage demanded. She showed no particular pleasure when her mother found the sort of place they wanted, but went to work with her in sullen silence. Mrs. Hamilton could not understand it all, and many a night she wept and prayed over the change in this child of her heart. There were times when she felt that there was nothing left to work or fight for. The letters from Berry in prison became fewer and fewer. He was sinking into the dull, dead routine of his life. Her own letters to him fell off. It was hard getting the children to write. They did not want to be bothered, and she could not write for herself. So in the weeks and months that followed she drifted farther away from her children and husband and all the traditions of her life. After Joe's first night at the Banner Club he had kept his promise to Hattie Sterling and had gone often to meet her. She had taught him much, because it was to her advantage to do so. His greenness had dropped from him like a garment, but no amount of sophistication could make him deem the woman less perfect. He knew that she was much older than he, but he only took this fact as an additional sign of his prowess in having won her. He was proud of himself when he went behind the scenes at the theatre or waited for her at the stage door and bore her off under the admiring eyes of a crowd of gapers. And Hattie? She liked him in a half-contemptuous, half-amused way. He was a good-looking boy and made money enough, as she expressed it, to show her a good time, so she was willing to overlook his weakness and his callow vanity. "Look here," she said to him one day, "I guess you 'll have to be moving. There 's a young lady been inquiring for you to-day, and I won't stand for that." He looked at her, startled for a moment, until he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that afternoon, after going to the barber-shop, Joe was driven by a tempest of conflicting emotions. If Minty Brown had not told his story, why not? Would she yet tell, and if she did, what would happen? He tortured himself by questioning if Hattie would cast him off. At the very thought his hand trembled, and the man in the chair asked him if he had n't been drinking. When he met Minty in the evening, however, the first glance at her reassured him. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she came forward and held out her hand. "Well, well, Joe Hamilton," she exclaimed, "if I ain't right-down glad to see you! How are you?" "I 'm middlin', Minty. How 's yourself?" He was so happy that he could n't let go her hand. "An' jes' look at the boy! Ef he ain't got the impidence to be waihin' a mustache too. You must 'a' been lettin' the cats lick yo' upper lip. Did n't expect to see me in New York, did you?" "No, indeed. What you doin' here?" "Oh, I got a gent'man friend what 's a porter, an' his run 's been changed so that he comes hyeah, an' he told me, if I wanted to come he 'd bring me thoo fur a visit, so, you see, hyeah I am. I allus was mighty anxious to see this hyeah town. But tell me, how 's Kit an' yo' ma?" "They 're both right well." He had forgotten them and their scorn of Minty. "Whaih do you live? I 'm comin' roun' to see 'em." He hesitated for a moment. He knew how his mother, if not Kit, would receive her, and yet he dared not anger this woman, who had his fate in the hollow of	often to the club. X A VISITOR FROM HOME Mrs. Hamilton began to question very seriously whether she had done the best thing in coming to New York as she saw her son staying away more and more and growing always farther away from her and his sister. Had she known how and where he spent his evenings, she would have had even greater cause to question the wisdom of their trip. She knew that although he worked he never had any money for the house, and she foresaw the time when the little they had would no longer suffice for Kitty and her. Realising this, she herself set out to find something to do. It was a hard matter, for wherever she went seeking employment, it was always for her and her daughter, for the more she saw of Mrs. Jones, the less she thought it well to leave the girl under her influence. Mrs. Hamilton was not a keen woman, but she had a mother's intuitions, and she saw a subtle change in her daughter. At first the girl grew wistful and then impatient and rebellious. She complained that Joe was away from them so much enjoying himself, while she had to be housed up like a prisoner. She had receded from her dignified position, and twice of an evening had gone out for a car-ride with Thomas; but as that gentleman never included the mother in his invitation, she decided that her daughter should go no more, and she begged Joe to take his sister out sometimes instead. He demurred at first, for he now numbered among his city acquirements a fine contempt for his woman relatives. Finally, however, he consented, and took Kit once to the theatre and once for a ride. Each time he left her in the care of Thomas as soon as they were out of the house, while he went to find or to wait for his dear Hattie. But his mother did not know all this, and Kit did not tell her. The quick poison of the unreal life about her had already begun to affect her character. She had grown secretive and sly. The innocent longing which in a burst of enthusiasm she had expressed that first night at the theatre was growing into a real ambition with her, and she dropped the simple old songs she knew to practise the detestable coon ditties which the stage demanded. She showed no particular pleasure when her mother found the sort of place they wanted, but went to work with her in sullen silence. Mrs. Hamilton could not understand it all, and many a night she wept and prayed over the change in this child of her heart. There were times when she felt that there was nothing left to work or fight for. The letters from Berry in prison became fewer and fewer. He was sinking into the dull, dead routine of his life. Her own letters to him fell off. It was hard getting the children to write. They did not want to be bothered, and she could not write for herself. So in the weeks and months that followed she drifted farther away from her children and husband and all the traditions of her life. After Joe's first night at the Banner Club he had kept his promise to Hattie Sterling and had gone often to meet her. She had taught him much, because it was to her advantage to do so. His greenness had dropped from him like a garment, but no amount of sophistication could make him deem the woman less perfect. He knew that she was much older than he, but he only took this fact as an additional sign of his prowess in having won her. He was proud of himself when he went behind the scenes at the theatre or waited for her at the stage door and bore her off under the admiring eyes of a crowd of gapers. And Hattie? She liked him in a half-contemptuous, half-amused way. He was a good-looking boy and made money enough, as she expressed it, to show her a good time, so she was willing to overlook his weakness and his callow vanity. "Look here," she said to him one day, "I guess you 'll have to be moving. There 's a young lady been inquiring for you to-day, and I won't stand for that." He looked at her, startled for a moment, until he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that afternoon, after going to the barber-shop, Joe was driven by a tempest of conflicting emotions. If Minty Brown had not told his story, why not? Would she yet tell, and if she did, what would happen? He tortured himself by questioning if Hattie would cast him off. At the very thought his hand trembled, and the man in the chair asked him if he had n't been drinking. When he met Minty in the evening, however, the first glance at her reassured him. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she came forward and held out her hand. "Well, well, Joe Hamilton," she exclaimed, "if I ain't right-down glad to see you! How are you?" "I 'm middlin', Minty. How 's yourself?" He was so happy that he could n't let go her hand. "An' jes' look at the boy! Ef he ain't got the impidence to be waihin' a mustache too. You must 'a' been lettin' the cats lick yo' upper lip. Did n't expect to see me in New York, did you?" "No, indeed. What you doin' here?" "Oh, I got a gent'man friend what 's a porter, an' his run 's been changed so that he comes hyeah, an' he told me, if I wanted to come he 'd bring me thoo fur a visit, so, you see, hyeah I am. I allus was mighty anxious to see this hyeah town. But tell me, how 's Kit an' yo' ma?" "They 're both right well." He had forgotten them and their scorn of Minty. "Whaih do you live? I 'm comin' roun' to see 'em." He hesitated for a moment. He knew how his mother, if not Kit, would receive her, and yet he dared not anger this woman, who had his fate in the hollow of her hand. She saw his hesitation and spoke up. "Oh, that 's all right. Let by-gones be by-gones. You know I ain't the kin' o' person that holds a grudge ag'in anybody." "That 's right, Minty, that 's right," he said, and gave her his mother's address. Then he hastened home to prepare the way for Minty's coming. Joe had no doubt but that his mother would see the matter quite as he saw it, and be willing to temporise with Minty; but he had reckoned without his host. Mrs. Hamilton might make certain concessions to strangers on the score of expediency, but she absolutely refused to yield one iota of her dignity to one whom she had known so long as an inferior. "But don't you see what she can do for us, ma? She knows people that I know, and she can ruin me with them." "I ain't never bowed my haid to Minty Brown an' I ain't a-goin' to do it now," was his mother's only reply. "Oh, ma," Kitty put in, "you don't want to get talked about up here, do you?" "We 'd jes' as well be talked about fu' somep'n we did n't do as fu' somep'n we did do, an' it would n' be long befo' we 'd come to dat if we made frien's wid dat Brown gal. I ain't a-goin' to do it. I 'm ashamed o' you, Kitty, fu' wantin' me to." The girl began to cry, while her brother walked the floor angrily. "You 'll see what 'll happen," he cried; "you 'll see." Fannie looked at her son, and she seemed to see him more clearly than she had ever seen him before,--his foppery, his meanness, his cowardice. "Well," she answered with a sigh, "it can't be no wuss den what 's already happened." "You 'll see, you 'll see," the boy reiterated. Minty Brown allowed no wind of thought to cool the fire of her determination. She left Hattie Sterling's soon after Joe, and he was still walking the floor and uttering dire forebodings when she rang the bell below and asked for the Hamiltons. Mrs. Jones ushered her into her fearfully upholstered parlour, and then puffed up stairs to tell her lodgers that there was a friend there from the South who wanted to see them. "Tell huh," said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one	they were out of the house, while he went to find or to wait for his dear Hattie. But his mother did not know all this, and Kit did not tell her. The quick poison of the unreal life about her had already begun to affect her character. She had grown secretive and sly. The innocent longing which in a burst of enthusiasm she had expressed that first night at the theatre was growing into a real ambition with her, and she dropped the simple old songs she knew to practise the detestable coon ditties which the stage demanded. She showed no particular pleasure when her mother found the sort of place they wanted, but went to work with her in sullen silence. Mrs. Hamilton could not understand it all, and many a night she wept and prayed over the change in this child of her heart. There were times when she felt that there was nothing left to work or fight for. The letters from Berry in prison became fewer and fewer. He was sinking into the dull, dead routine of his life. Her own letters to him fell off. It was hard getting the children to write. They did not want to be bothered, and she could not write for herself. So in the weeks and months that followed she drifted farther away from her children and husband and all the traditions of her life. After Joe's first night at the Banner Club he had kept his promise to Hattie Sterling and had gone often to meet her. She had taught him much, because it was to her advantage to do so. His greenness had dropped from him like a garment, but no amount of sophistication could make him deem the woman less perfect. He knew that she was much older than he, but he only took this fact as an additional sign of his prowess in having won her. He was proud of himself when he went behind the scenes at the theatre or waited for her at the stage door and bore her off under the admiring eyes of a crowd of gapers. And Hattie? She liked him in a half-contemptuous, half-amused way. He was a good-looking boy and made money enough, as she expressed it, to show her a good time, so she was willing to overlook his weakness and his callow vanity. "Look here," she said to him one day, "I guess you 'll have to be moving. There 's a young lady been inquiring for you to-day, and I won't stand for that." He looked at her, startled for a moment, until he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that afternoon, after going to the barber-shop, Joe was driven by a tempest of conflicting emotions. If Minty Brown had not told his story, why not? Would she yet tell, and if she did, what would happen? He tortured himself by questioning if Hattie would cast him off. At the very thought his hand trembled, and the man in the chair asked him if he had n't been drinking. When he met Minty in the evening, however, the first glance at her reassured him. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she came forward and held out her hand. "Well, well, Joe Hamilton," she exclaimed, "if I ain't right-down glad to see you! How are you?" "I 'm middlin', Minty. How 's yourself?" He was so happy that he could n't let go her hand. "An' jes' look at the boy! Ef he ain't got the impidence to be waihin' a mustache too. You must 'a' been lettin' the cats lick yo' upper lip. Did n't expect to see me in New York, did you?" "No, indeed. What you doin' here?" "Oh, I got a gent'man friend what 's a porter, an' his run 's been changed so that he comes hyeah, an' he told me, if I wanted to come he 'd bring me thoo fur a visit, so, you see, hyeah I am. I allus was mighty anxious to see this hyeah town. But tell me, how 's Kit an' yo' ma?" "They 're both right well." He had forgotten them and their scorn of Minty. "Whaih do you live? I 'm comin' roun' to see 'em." He hesitated for a moment. He knew how his mother, if not Kit, would receive her, and yet he dared not anger this woman, who had his fate in the hollow of her hand. She saw his hesitation and spoke up. "Oh, that 's all right. Let by-gones be by-gones. You know I ain't the kin' o' person that holds a grudge ag'in anybody." "That 's right, Minty, that 's right," he said, and gave her his mother's address. Then he hastened home to prepare the way for Minty's coming. Joe had no doubt but that his mother would see the matter quite as he saw it, and be willing to temporise with Minty; but he had reckoned without his host. Mrs. Hamilton might make certain concessions to strangers on the score of expediency, but she absolutely refused to yield one iota	The Sport Of The Gods
"I can tell you,"	Dervish	but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was	the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone,	had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat	had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce." "Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I	a certain sign he had undergone the same fate as his brother; but at the same time told her he hoped it would never happen, but that he should have the delight of seeing her again. Prince Perviz, on the twentieth day after his departure, met the same dervish in the same place as his brother Bahman had done before him. He went directly up to him, and after he had saluted, asked him if he could tell him where to find the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water. The dervish urged the same remonstrances as he had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce." "Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I beg of you to do me the same favour you have done my brother. Perhaps I may have better success in following your directions." "Since I cannot prevail with you," said the dervish, "to give up your obstinate resolution, if my age did not prevent me, and I could stand, I would get up to reach you a bowl I have here, which will show you the way." Without giving the dervish time to say more, the prince alighted from his horse and went to the dervish, who had taken a bowl out of his bag, in which he had	submit and adore the decrees of the Almighty without searching into them. Why should you now doubt of the truth of what the holy woman told you? Do you think she spoke to you of three things that were not in being, and that she invented them to deceive you who had received her with so much goodness and civility? Let us rather believe that our brother's death is owing to some error on his part, or some accident which we cannot conceive. It ought not therefore to prevent us from pursuing our object. I offered to go this journey, and am now more resolved than ever; his example has no effect upon my resolution; to-morrow I will depart." The princess did all she could to dissuade Prince Perviz, conjuring him not to expose her to the danger of losing two brothers; but he was obstinate, and all the remonstrances she could urge had no effect upon him. Before he went, that she might know what success he had, he left her a string of a hundred pearls, telling her that if they would not run when she should count them upon the string, but remain fixed, that would be a certain sign he had undergone the same fate as his brother; but at the same time told her he hoped it would never happen, but that he should have the delight of seeing her again. Prince Perviz, on the twentieth day after his departure, met the same dervish in the same place as his brother Bahman had done before him. He went directly up to him, and after he had saluted, asked him if he could tell him where to find the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water. The dervish urged the same remonstrances as he had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce." "Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I beg of you to do me the same favour you have done my brother. Perhaps I may have better success in following your directions." "Since I cannot prevail with you," said the dervish, "to give up your obstinate resolution, if my age did not prevent me, and I could stand, I would get up to reach you a bowl I have here, which will show you the way." Without giving the dervish time to say more, the prince alighted from his horse and went to the dervish, who had taken a bowl out of his bag, in which he had a great many, and gave it him, with the same directions he had given Prince Bahman; and after warning him not to be discouraged by the voices he should hear, however threatening they might be, but to continue his way up the hill till he saw the cage and bird, he let him depart. Prince Perviz thanked the dervish, and when he had remounted and taken leave, threw the bowl before his horse, and spurring him at the same time, followed it. When the bowl came to the bottom of the hill it stopped, the prince alighted, and stood some time to recollect the dervish's directions. He encouraged himself, and began to walk up with a resolution to reach the summit; but before he had gone above six steps, he heard a voice, which seemed to be near, as of a man behind him, say in an insulting tone: "Stay, rash youth, that I may punish you for your presumption." Upon this affront the prince, forgetting the dervish's advice, clapped his hand upon his sword, drew it, and turned about to revenge himself; but had scarcely time to see that nobody followed him before he and his horse were changed	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 and before, that at last he was seized with dread, his legs trembled under him, he staggered, and finding that his strength failed him, he forgot the dervish's advice, turned about to run down the hill, and was that instant changed into a black stone; a metamorphosis which had happened to many before him who had attempted the ascent. His horse, likewise, underwent the same change. From the time of Prince Bahman's departure, the Princess Periezade always wore the knife and sheath in her girdle, and pulled it out several times in a day, to know whether her brother was alive. She had the consolation to understand he was in perfect health and to talk of him frequently with Prince Perviz. On the fatal day that Prince Bahman was transformed into a stone, as Prince Perviz and the princess were talking together in the evening, as usual, the prince desired his sister to pull out the knife to know how their brother did. The princess readily complied, and seeing the blood run down the point was seized with so much horror that she threw it down. "Ah! my dear brother," cried she, "I have been the cause of your death, and shall never see you more! Why did I tell you of the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water; or rather, of what importance was it to me to know whether the devout woman thought this house ugly or handsome, or complete or not? I wish to Heaven she had never addressed herself to me!" Prince Perviz was as much afflicted at the death of Prince Bahman as the princess, but not to waste time in needless regret, as he knew that she still passionately desired possession of the marvellous treasures, he interrupted her, saying: "Sister, our regret for our brother is vain; our lamentations cannot restore him to life; it is the will of God; we must submit and adore the decrees of the Almighty without searching into them. Why should you now doubt of the truth of what the holy woman told you? Do you think she spoke to you of three things that were not in being, and that she invented them to deceive you who had received her with so much goodness and civility? Let us rather believe that our brother's death is owing to some error on his part, or some accident which we cannot conceive. It ought not therefore to prevent us from pursuing our object. I offered to go this journey, and am now more resolved than ever; his example has no effect upon my resolution; to-morrow I will depart." The princess did all she could to dissuade Prince Perviz, conjuring him not to expose her to the danger of losing two brothers; but he was obstinate, and all the remonstrances she could urge had no effect upon him. Before he went, that she might know what success he had, he left her a string of a hundred pearls, telling her that if they would not run when she should count them upon the string, but remain fixed, that would be a certain sign he had undergone the same fate as his brother; but at the same time told her he hoped it would never happen, but that he should have the delight of seeing her again. Prince Perviz, on the twentieth day after his departure, met the same dervish in the same place as his brother Bahman had done before him. He went directly up to him, and after he had saluted, asked him if he could tell him where to find the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water. The dervish urged the same remonstrances as he had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce." "Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I beg of you to do me the same favour you have done my brother. Perhaps I may have better success in following your directions." "Since I cannot prevail with you," said the dervish, "to give up your obstinate resolution, if my age did not prevent me, and I could stand, I would get up to reach you a bowl I have here, which will show you the way." Without giving the dervish time to say more, the prince alighted from his horse and went to the dervish, who had taken a bowl out of his bag, in which he had a great many, and gave it him, with the same directions he had given Prince Bahman; and after warning him not to be discouraged by the voices he should hear, however threatening they might be, but to continue his way up the hill till he saw the cage and bird, he let him depart. Prince Perviz thanked the dervish, and when he had remounted and taken leave, threw the bowl before his horse, and spurring him at the same time, followed it. When the bowl came to the bottom of the hill it stopped, the prince alighted, and stood some time to recollect the dervish's directions. He encouraged himself, and began to walk up with a resolution to reach the summit; but before he had gone above six steps, he heard a voice, which seemed to be near, as of a man behind him, say in an insulting tone: "Stay, rash youth, that I may punish you for your presumption." Upon this affront the prince, forgetting the dervish's advice, clapped his hand upon his sword, drew it, and turned about to revenge himself; but had scarcely time to see that nobody followed him before he and his horse were changed into black stones. In the meantime the Princess Periezade, several times a day after her brother's departure, counted her chaplet. She did not omit it at night, but when she went to bed put it about her neck, and in the morning when she awoke counted over the pearls again to see if they would slide. The day that Prince Perviz was transformed into a stone she was counting over the pearls as she used to do, when all at once they became immovably fixed, a certain token that the prince, her brother, was dead. As she had determined what to do in case it should so happen, she lost no time in outward demonstrations of grief, which she concealed as much as possible, but having disguised herself in man's apparel, she mounted her horse the next morning, armed and equipped, having told her servants she should return in two or three days, and took the same road that her brothers had done. The princess, who had been used to ride on horseback in hunting, supported the fatigue of so long a journey better than most ladies could have done; and as she made the same stages as her brothers, she also met with the dervish on the twentieth day. When she came near him, she alighted from her horse, leading him by the bridle, went and sat down by the dervish, and after she had saluted him, said: "Good dervish, give me leave to rest myself; and do me the favour to tell me if you have not heard that there are somewhere in this neighbourhood a Talking Bird, a Singing Tree, and Golden Water." "Princess," answered the dervish, "for so I must call you, since by your voice I know you to be a woman disguised in man's apparel, I know the place well where these things are to be found; but what makes you ask me this question?" "Good dervish," replied the princess, "I have had such a flattering relation of them given me, that I have a great desire to possess them." "Madam," replied the dervish, "you have been told the truth. These curiosities are more singular than they have been represented, but you have not been made acquainted with the difficulties which must be surmounted in order to obtain them. If you had been fully informed of these, you would not have undertaken so dangerous	you of the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water; or rather, of what importance was it to me to know whether the devout woman thought this house ugly or handsome, or complete or not? I wish to Heaven she had never addressed herself to me!" Prince Perviz was as much afflicted at the death of Prince Bahman as the princess, but not to waste time in needless regret, as he knew that she still passionately desired possession of the marvellous treasures, he interrupted her, saying: "Sister, our regret for our brother is vain; our lamentations cannot restore him to life; it is the will of God; we must submit and adore the decrees of the Almighty without searching into them. Why should you now doubt of the truth of what the holy woman told you? Do you think she spoke to you of three things that were not in being, and that she invented them to deceive you who had received her with so much goodness and civility? Let us rather believe that our brother's death is owing to some error on his part, or some accident which we cannot conceive. It ought not therefore to prevent us from pursuing our object. I offered to go this journey, and am now more resolved than ever; his example has no effect upon my resolution; to-morrow I will depart." The princess did all she could to dissuade Prince Perviz, conjuring him not to expose her to the danger of losing two brothers; but he was obstinate, and all the remonstrances she could urge had no effect upon him. Before he went, that she might know what success he had, he left her a string of a hundred pearls, telling her that if they would not run when she should count them upon the string, but remain fixed, that would be a certain sign he had undergone the same fate as his brother; but at the same time told her he hoped it would never happen, but that he should have the delight of seeing her again. Prince Perviz, on the twentieth day after his departure, met the same dervish in the same place as his brother Bahman had done before him. He went directly up to him, and after he had saluted, asked him if he could tell him where to find the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water. The dervish urged the same remonstrances as he had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce." "Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I beg of you to do me the same favour you have done my brother. Perhaps I may have better success in following your directions." "Since I cannot prevail with you," said the dervish, "to give up your obstinate resolution, if my age did not prevent me, and I could stand, I would get up to reach you a bowl I have here, which will show you the way." Without giving the dervish time to say more, the prince alighted from his horse and went to the dervish, who had taken a bowl out of his bag, in which he had a great many, and gave it him, with the same directions he had given Prince Bahman; and after warning him not to be discouraged by the voices he should hear, however threatening they might be, but to continue his way up the hill till he saw the cage and bird, he let him depart. Prince Perviz thanked the dervish, and when he had remounted and taken leave, threw the bowl before his horse, and spurring him at the same time, followed it. When the bowl came to the bottom of the hill it stopped, the prince alighted, and stood some time to recollect the dervish's directions. He encouraged himself, and began to walk up with a resolution to reach the summit; but before he had gone above six steps, he heard a voice, which seemed to be near, as of a man behind him, say in an insulting tone: "Stay, rash youth, that I may punish you for your presumption." Upon this affront the prince, forgetting the dervish's advice, clapped his hand upon his sword, drew it, and turned about to revenge himself; but had scarcely time to see that nobody followed him before he and his horse were changed into black stones. In the meantime the Princess Periezade, several times a day after her brother's departure, counted her chaplet. She did not omit it at night, but when she went to bed put it about her neck, and in the morning when she awoke counted over the pearls again to see if they would slide. The day that Prince Perviz was transformed into a stone she was counting over the pearls as she used to do, when all at once they became immovably fixed, a certain token that the prince, her brother, was dead. As she had determined what to do in case it should so happen, she lost no time in outward demonstrations of grief, which she concealed as much as possible, but having disguised herself in man's apparel, she mounted her horse the next morning, armed and equipped, having told her servants she should return in two or three days, and took the same road that her brothers had done. The princess, who had been used to ride on horseback in hunting, supported the fatigue of so long a journey better than most ladies could have done; and as she made	Arabian Nights (1)
"She's awful."	Tony Last	wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances...	bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible	for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't	the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to	joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you	I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got	they do _that_. It's one of the _worst_ things. Were they natives?" "Yes, of course." "Ben says natives aren't humans at all really." "Ah, but he's thinking of Negroes, I expect. These are pure Semitic type." "What's that?" "The same as Jews." "Ben says Jews are worse than natives." "Oh dear, what a very severe boy you are. I was like that once. Life teaches one to be tolerant." "It hasn't taught Ben," said John. "When's mummy coming? I thought she'd be here, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a dull world if we all thought alike," she said. "She's more beautiful than Miss Tendril, even. I think she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen... D'you think she'd like to watch me have my bath?" Downstairs, Jenny said, "What a heavenly child... I love children. That has been my great tragedy. It was when he found I couldn't have children that the Moulay first showed the Other Side of his Nature. It wasn't my fault... you see my womb is out of place... I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a _waste of time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought to spend some time with daddy and mummy and Lady Cockpurse?" "Oh, _them_... besides, it's all my foot about Lady Cockpurse having a tail. Please, you _will_ spend the day with me?" "Well, we'll see." * * * * * "She's gone to church with him. That's a good sign, isn't it?" "Well, not really, Polly. He likes going alone, or with me. It's the time he gossips to the village." "She won't stop him." "I'm afraid you don't understand the old boy altogether. He's much odder than you'd think." * * * * * "I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector." "Yes, yes, most of my life." "It has an uncanny fascination, hasn't it?" "Oh, come on," said John, pulling at her coat. "We must go and see Thunderclap." So Tony returned alone with the buttonholes. After luncheon Brenda said, "Why don't you show Jenny the house?" "Oh yes, _do_." When they reached the morning-room he said, "Brenda's having it done up." There were planks and ladders and heaps of plaster about. "Oh, Teddy, what a shame. I do hate seeing things modernized." "It isn't a room we used very much." "No, but still..." She stirred the mouldings of fleur-de-lis that littered the floor, fragments of tarnished gilding and dusty stencil-work. "You know, Brenda's been a wonderful friend to me. I wouldn't say anything against her... but ever since I came here I've been wondering whether she really understands this beautiful place and all it means to you." "Tell me more about your terrible life," said Tony, leading her back to the central hall. "You _are_ shy of talking about yourself, aren't you, Teddy? It's a mistake, you know, to keep things bottled up. I've been very unhappy too." Tony looked about him desperately in search of help; and help came. "Oh, there you are," said a firm, child's voice. "Come on. We're going down to the woods now. We must hurry, otherwise it will be dark." "Oh, Johnny-boy, must I really? I was just talking	time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought to spend some time with daddy and mummy and Lady Cockpurse?" "Oh, _them_... besides, it's all my foot about Lady Cockpurse having a tail. Please, you _will_ spend the day with me?" "Well, we'll see." * * * * * "She's gone to church with him. That's a good sign, isn't it?" "Well, not really, Polly.	A Handful Of Dust
Polina forced herself to say.	No speaker	Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with	me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on	and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why,	where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your medicinal springs and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why, she is only a human being like the rest of us; and as she has been travelling for a week she might like to look about her. With whom else could she go out but myself? She would never dare to show her nose in the street alone." "But, mother"	herself, since a mere description of it would be a difficult matter. "Then take me straight there," she said, "and do you walk on in front of me, Alexis Ivanovitch." "What, mother? Before you have so much as rested from your journey?" the General inquired with some solicitude. Also, for some reason which I could not divine, he seemed to be growing nervous; and, indeed, the whole party was evincing signs of confusion, and exchanging glances with one another. Probably they were thinking that it would be a ticklish even an embarrassing business to accompany the Grandmother to the Casino, where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your medicinal springs and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why, she is only a human being like the rest of us; and as she has been travelling for a week she might like to look about her. With whom else could she go out but myself? She would never dare to show her nose in the street alone." "But, mother" "Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Stop at home, then, and you will be asked no questions. A pretty General _you_ are, to be sure! I am a general s widow myself. But, after all, why should I drag the whole party with me? I will go and see the sights with only Alexis Ivanovitch as my escort." De Griers strongly insisted that _every one_ ought to accompany her. Indeed, he launched out into a perfect shower of charming phrases concerning the pleasure of acting as her cicerone, and so forth. Every one was touched with his words.	who does not even know how to carry his breeding. Lift me up. Potapitch, see to it that you always have _two_ bearers ready. Go and arrange for their hire. But we shall not require more than two, for I shall need only to be carried upstairs. On the level or in the street I can be _wheeled_ along. Go and tell them that, and pay them in advance, so that they may show me some respect. You too, Potapitch, are always to come with me, and _you_, Alexis Ivanovitch, are to point out to me this Baron as we go along, in order that I may get a squint at the precious Von. And where is that roulette played?" I explained to her that the game was carried on in the salons of the Casino; whereupon there ensued a string of questions as to whether there were many such salons, whether many people played in them, whether those people played a whole day at a time, and whether the game was managed according to fixed rules. At length, I thought it best to say that the most advisable course would be for her to go and see it for herself, since a mere description of it would be a difficult matter. "Then take me straight there," she said, "and do you walk on in front of me, Alexis Ivanovitch." "What, mother? Before you have so much as rested from your journey?" the General inquired with some solicitude. Also, for some reason which I could not divine, he seemed to be growing nervous; and, indeed, the whole party was evincing signs of confusion, and exchanging glances with one another. Probably they were thinking that it would be a ticklish even an embarrassing business to accompany the Grandmother to the Casino, where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your medicinal springs and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why, she is only a human being like the rest of us; and as she has been travelling for a week she might like to look about her. With whom else could she go out but myself? She would never dare to show her nose in the street alone." "But, mother" "Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Stop at home, then, and you will be asked no questions. A pretty General _you_ are, to be sure! I am a general s widow myself. But, after all, why should I drag the whole party with me? I will go and see the sights with only Alexis Ivanovitch as my escort." De Griers strongly insisted that _every one_ ought to accompany her. Indeed, he launched out into a perfect shower of charming phrases concerning the pleasure of acting as her cicerone, and so forth. Every one was touched with his words. "Mais elle est tomb e en enfance," he added aside to the General. "Seule, elle fera des b tises." More than this I could not overhear, but he seemed to have got some plan in his mind, or even to be feeling a slight return of his hopes. The distance to the Casino was about half a verst, and our route led us through the Chestnut Avenue until we reached the square directly fronting the building. The General, I could see, was a trifle reassured by the fact that, though our progress was distinctly eccentric in its nature, it was, at least, correct and orderly. As a matter of fact, the spectacle of a person who is unable to walk is not anything to excite surprise at a spa. Yet it was clear that the General had a great fear of the Casino itself: for why should a person who had lost the use of her limbs more especially an old woman be going to rooms which were set apart only for roulette? On either side of the wheeled chair walked Polina and Mlle. Blanche the latter smiling, modestly jesting, and, in short, making herself so agreeable to the Grandmother	my own pillows and sheets. The place is too luxurious for an old woman like myself. It is too large for any one person. Alexis Ivanovitch, come and see me whenever you are not teaching your pupils." "After tomorrow I shall no longer be in the General s service," I replied, "but merely living in the hotel on my own account." "Why so?" "Because, the other day, there arrived from Berlin a German and his wife persons of some importance; and, it chanced that, when taking a walk, I spoke to them in German without having properly compassed the Berlin accent." "Indeed?" "Yes: and this action on my part the Baron held to be an insult, and complained about it to the General, who yesterday dismissed me from his employ." "But I suppose you must have threatened that precious Baron, or something of the kind? However, even if you did so, it was a matter of no moment." "No, I did not. The Baron was the aggressor by raising his stick at me." Upon that the Grandmother turned sharply to the General. "What? You permitted yourself to treat your tutor thus, you nincompoop, and to dismiss him from his post? You are a blockhead an utter blockhead! I can see that clearly." "Do not alarm yourself, my dear mother," the General replied with a lofty air an air in which there was also a tinge of familiarity. "I am quite capable of managing my own affairs. Moreover, Alexis Ivanovitch has not given you a true account of the matter." "What did you do next?" The old lady inquired of me. "I wanted to challenge the Baron to a duel," I replied as modestly as possible; "but the General protested against my doing so." "And _why_ did you so protest?" she inquired of the General. Then she turned to the landlord, and questioned him as to whether _he_ would not have fought a duel, if challenged. "For," she added, "I can see no difference between you and the Baron; nor can I bear that German visage of yours." Upon this the landlord bowed and departed, though he could not have understood the Grandmother s compliment. "Pardon me, Madame," the General continued with a sneer, "but are duels really feasible?" "Why not? All men are crowing cocks, and that is why they quarrel. _You_, though, I perceive, are a blockhead a man who does not even know how to carry his breeding. Lift me up. Potapitch, see to it that you always have _two_ bearers ready. Go and arrange for their hire. But we shall not require more than two, for I shall need only to be carried upstairs. On the level or in the street I can be _wheeled_ along. Go and tell them that, and pay them in advance, so that they may show me some respect. You too, Potapitch, are always to come with me, and _you_, Alexis Ivanovitch, are to point out to me this Baron as we go along, in order that I may get a squint at the precious Von. And where is that roulette played?" I explained to her that the game was carried on in the salons of the Casino; whereupon there ensued a string of questions as to whether there were many such salons, whether many people played in them, whether those people played a whole day at a time, and whether the game was managed according to fixed rules. At length, I thought it best to say that the most advisable course would be for her to go and see it for herself, since a mere description of it would be a difficult matter. "Then take me straight there," she said, "and do you walk on in front of me, Alexis Ivanovitch." "What, mother? Before you have so much as rested from your journey?" the General inquired with some solicitude. Also, for some reason which I could not divine, he seemed to be growing nervous; and, indeed, the whole party was evincing signs of confusion, and exchanging glances with one another. Probably they were thinking that it would be a ticklish even an embarrassing business to accompany the Grandmother to the Casino, where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your medicinal springs and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why, she is only a human being like the rest of us; and as she has been travelling for a week she might like to look about her. With whom else could she go out but myself? She would never dare to show her nose in the street alone." "But, mother" "Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Stop at home, then, and you will be asked no questions. A pretty General _you_ are, to be sure! I am a general s widow myself. But, after all, why should I drag the whole party with me? I will go and see the sights with only Alexis Ivanovitch as my escort." De Griers strongly insisted that _every one_ ought to accompany her. Indeed, he launched out into a perfect shower of charming phrases concerning the pleasure of acting as her cicerone, and so forth. Every one was touched with his words. "Mais elle est tomb e en enfance," he added aside to the General. "Seule, elle fera des b tises." More than this I could not overhear, but he seemed to have got some plan in his mind, or even to be feeling a slight return of his hopes. The distance to the Casino was about half a verst, and our route led us through the Chestnut Avenue until we reached the square directly fronting the building. The General, I could see, was a trifle reassured by the fact that, though our progress was distinctly eccentric in its nature, it was, at least, correct and orderly. As a matter of fact, the spectacle of a person who is unable to walk is not anything to excite surprise at a spa. Yet it was clear that the General had a great fear of the Casino itself: for why should a person who had lost the use of her limbs more especially an old woman be going to rooms which were set apart only for roulette? On either side of the wheeled chair walked Polina and Mlle. Blanche the latter smiling, modestly jesting, and, in short, making herself so agreeable to the Grandmother that in the end the old lady relented towards her. On the other side of the chair Polina had to answer an endless flow of petty questions such as "Who was it passed just now?" "Who is that coming along?" "Is the town a large one?" "Are the public gardens extensive?" "What sort of trees are those?" "What is the name of those hills?" "Do I see eagles flying yonder?" "What is that absurd-looking building?" and so forth. Meanwhile Astley whispered to me, as he walked by my side, that he looked for much to happen that morning. Behind the old lady s chair marched Potapitch and Martha Potapitch in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, with a cloak over all, and the forty-year-old and rosy, but slightly grey-headed, Martha in a mobcap, cotton dress, and squeaking shoes. Frequently the old lady would twist herself round to converse with these servants. As for De Griers, he spoke as though he had made up his mind to do something (though it is also possible that he spoke in this manner merely in order to hearten the General, with whom he appeared to have held a conference). But, alas, the Grandmother had uttered the fatal words, "I am not going to give you any of my money;" and though De Griers might regard these words lightly, the General knew his mother better. Also, I noticed that De Griers and Mlle. Blanche were still exchanging looks; while of the Prince and the German savant I lost sight at the end of the Avenue, where they had turned back and left us. Into the Casino we marched in triumph. At once, both in the person of the commissionaire and in the persons of the footmen, there sprang to life the same reverence as had arisen in the lacqueys of the hotel. Yet it was not without some curiosity that they eyed us. Without loss of time, the Grandmother gave orders that she should be wheeled through every room in the establishment; of which apartments she praised a few, while to others she remained indifferent. Concerning everything, however, she asked questions. Finally we reached the gaming-salons, where a lacquey who was, acting as guard over the doors, flung them open as though he were a man possessed. The Grandmother s entry into the roulette-salon produced a profound impression upon the public. Around the tables, and at	squint at the precious Von. And where is that roulette played?" I explained to her that the game was carried on in the salons of the Casino; whereupon there ensued a string of questions as to whether there were many such salons, whether many people played in them, whether those people played a whole day at a time, and whether the game was managed according to fixed rules. At length, I thought it best to say that the most advisable course would be for her to go and see it for herself, since a mere description of it would be a difficult matter. "Then take me straight there," she said, "and do you walk on in front of me, Alexis Ivanovitch." "What, mother? Before you have so much as rested from your journey?" the General inquired with some solicitude. Also, for some reason which I could not divine, he seemed to be growing nervous; and, indeed, the whole party was evincing signs of confusion, and exchanging glances with one another. Probably they were thinking that it would be a ticklish even an embarrassing business to accompany the Grandmother to the Casino, where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your medicinal springs and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why, she is only a human being like the rest of us; and as she has been travelling for a week she might like to look about her. With whom else could she go out but myself? She would never dare to show her nose in the street alone." "But, mother" "Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Stop at home, then, and you will be asked no questions. A pretty General _you_ are, to be sure! I am a general s widow myself. But, after all, why should I drag the whole party with me? I will go and see the sights with only Alexis Ivanovitch as my escort." De Griers strongly insisted that _every one_ ought to accompany her. Indeed, he launched out into a perfect shower of charming phrases concerning the pleasure of acting as her cicerone, and so forth. Every one was touched with his words. "Mais elle est tomb e en enfance," he added aside to the General. "Seule, elle fera des b tises." More than this I could not overhear, but he seemed to have got some plan in his mind, or even to be feeling a slight return of his hopes. The distance to the Casino was about half a verst, and our route led us through the Chestnut Avenue until we reached the square directly fronting the building. The General, I could see, was a trifle reassured by the fact that, though our progress was distinctly eccentric in its nature, it was, at least, correct and orderly. As a matter of fact, the spectacle of a person who is unable to walk is not anything to excite surprise at a spa. Yet it was clear that the General had a great fear of the Casino itself: for why should a person who	The Gambler
"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"	Mr. James Harthouse	now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently,	It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece,	is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same	or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again.	at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will	being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	never make any pretensions to the character of a moral sort of fellow. I am as immoral as need be. At the same time, in bringing any distress upon the lady who is the subject of the present conversation, or in unfortunately compromising her in any way, or in committing myself by any expression of sentiments towards her, not perfectly reconcilable with in fact with the domestic hearth; or in taking any advantage of her father's being a machine, or of her brother's being a whelp, or of her husband's being a bear; I beg to be allowed to assure you that I have had no particularly evil intentions, but have glided on from one step to another with a smoothness so perfectly diabolical, that I had not the slightest idea the catalogue was half so long until I began to turn it over. Whereas I find," said Mr. James Harthouse, in conclusion, "that it is really in several volumes." Though he said all this in his frivolous way, the way seemed, for that once, a conscious polishing of but an ugly surface. He was silent for a moment; and then proceeded with a more self-possessed air, though with traces of vexation and disappointment that would not be polished out. "After what has been just now represented to me, in a manner I find it impossible to doubt I know of hardly any other source from which I could have accepted it so readily I feel bound to say to you, in whom the confidence you have mentioned has been reposed, that I cannot refuse to contemplate the possibility (however unexpected) of my seeing the lady no more. I am solely to blame for the thing having come to this and and, I cannot say," he added, rather hard up for a general peroration, "that I have any sanguine expectation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever." Sissy's face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was not finished. "You spoke," he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him again, "of your first object. I may assume that there is a second to be mentioned?" "Yes." "Will you oblige me by confiding it?" "Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	source from which I could have accepted it so readily I feel bound to say to you, in whom the confidence you have mentioned has been reposed, that I cannot refuse to contemplate the possibility (however unexpected) of my seeing the lady no more. I am solely to blame for the thing having come to this and and, I cannot say," he added, rather hard up for a general peroration, "that I have any sanguine expectation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever." Sissy's face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was not finished. "You spoke," he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him again, "of your first object. I may assume that there is a second to be mentioned?" "Yes." "Will you oblige me by confiding it?" "Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	Hard Times

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"This is the boy, your worship,"	Mr. Bumble	in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old	been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the	washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow	powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman,	his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud: "Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman." As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, "Mind what I told you, you young rascal!" Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?" "He doats on it, your worship," replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. "And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman. "If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship," replied Bumble. "And this man that's to be his master you, sir you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?" said the old gentleman. "When I says I will, I means I will," replied	tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly. "Come," said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; "Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver." It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already. On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him. There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud: "Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman." As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, "Mind what I told you, you young rascal!" Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?" "He doats on it, your worship," replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. "And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman. "If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship," replied Bumble. "And this man that's to be his master you, sir you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?" said the old gentleman. "When I says I will, I means I will," replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly. "You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man," said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. "I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer. "I have no doubt you are, my friend," replied the old gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand. It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory	himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon. In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way. "Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful," said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. "You're a going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver." "A prentice, sir!" said the child, trembling. "Yes, Oliver," said Mr. Bumble. "The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to "prentice" you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten! three pound ten, Oliver! seventy shillins one hundred and forty sixpences! and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can't love." As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly. "Come," said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; "Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver." "The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to "prentice" you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten! three pound ten, Oliver! seventy shillins one hundred and forty sixpences! and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can't love." As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly. "Come," said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; "Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver." It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already. On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him. There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud: "Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman." As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, "Mind what I told you, you young rascal!" Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?" "He doats on it, your worship," replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. "And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman. "If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship," replied Bumble. "And this man that's to be his master you, sir you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?" said the old gentleman. "When I says I will, I means I will," replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly. "You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man," said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. "I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer. "I have no doubt you are, my friend," replied the old gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand. It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate. The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect. "My boy!" said the old gentleman, "you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?" "Stand a little away from him, Beadle," said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. "Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid." Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room that they would starve him beat him kill him if they pleased rather than send him away with that dreadful man. "Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. "Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest." "Hold your tongue, Beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective. "I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. "Did your worship speak to me?" "Yes. Hold your tongue." Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly. "We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. "I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins: "I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child." "The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it." That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which,	he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him. There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud: "Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman." As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, "Mind what I told you, you young rascal!" Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.<\|quote\|>"This is the boy, your worship,"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?" "He doats on it, your worship," replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. "And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman. "If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship," replied Bumble. "And this man that's to be his master you, sir you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?" said the old gentleman. "When I says I will, I means I will," replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly. "You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man," said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. "I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer. "I have no doubt	Oliver Twist
he said.	No speaker	"Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you	and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for	sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor,	stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once	aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down	would be cowardly, he thought; and in this spirit he began to draw himself slowly back till, after a great deal of exertion, he had contrived to get his legs beyond the eaves, and there he rested, hesitating once more. Just then he heard voices below, and holding on by one hand, he rapidly drew up a few yards of the rope, making his leg take the place of another hand. There was a good deal of talking, and he caught the word "rope," but that was all. So he continued his toilsome ascent till he was able to grasp the edge of the skylight opening, up to which he dragged himself, and sat listening, astride, as he had been before the attempt was made. All was so still that he was tempted to slide down and escape for no sound suggested that any one was on the watch. But Jem! Poor Jem! It was like leaving him in the lurch. Still, he thought, if he did get away, he might give the alarm, and find help to save Jem from being taken away. "And if they came up and found me gone," he muttered, "they would take Jem off aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought	he strained over as far as he could without falling to hear the dull thud of his companion's fall. Thoughts fly fast, and in a moment of time Don had seen poor Jem lying crushed below, picked up, and had borne the news to his little wife. But before he had gone any further, the rope was drawn tight once more, and as he held it, there came to thrill his nerves three distinct jerks. "It's all right!" he panted; and grasped the rope with both hands. "Now then," he thought, "it only wants a little courage, and I can slide down and join him, and then we're free." Yes; but it required a good deal of resolution to make the venture. "Suppose Jem's weight had unwound the rope; suppose it should break; suppose--" "Oh, what a coward I am!" he muttered; and swinging his leg free, he lay upon his face for a moment, right upon the sloping tiles and then let the rope glide through his hands. It was very easy work down that slope, only that elbows and hands suffered, and sundry sounds suggested that waistcoat buttons were being torn off. But that was no moment for studying trifles; and what were waistcoat buttons to liberty? Another moment, and his legs were over the edge, and he was about to attempt the most difficult part of the descent, grasping beforehand, that as soon as he hung clear of the eaves, he should begin to turn slowly round. "Now for it," he said; and he was about to descend perpendicularly, when the rope was suddenly jerked violently. There was a loud ejaculation, and Jem's voice rose to where he hung. "No, no, Mas' Don. Back! Back! Don't come down." Then, as he hung, there came the panting and noise of a terrible struggle far below. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. PRISONERS AGAIN. Don's grasp tightened on the rope, and as he lay there, half on, half off the slope, listening, with the beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead, he heard from below shouts, the trampling of feet and struggling. "They've attacked Jem," he thought. "What shall I do? Go to his help?" Before he could come to a decision the noise ceased and all was perfectly still. Don hung there thinking. What should he do--slide down and try to escape, or climb back? Jem was evidently retaken, and to escape would be cowardly, he thought; and in this spirit he began to draw himself slowly back till, after a great deal of exertion, he had contrived to get his legs beyond the eaves, and there he rested, hesitating once more. Just then he heard voices below, and holding on by one hand, he rapidly drew up a few yards of the rope, making his leg take the place of another hand. There was a good deal of talking, and he caught the word "rope," but that was all. So he continued his toilsome ascent till he was able to grasp the edge of the skylight opening, up to which he dragged himself, and sat listening, astride, as he had been before the attempt was made. All was so still that he was tempted to slide down and escape for no sound suggested that any one was on the watch. But Jem! Poor Jem! It was like leaving him in the lurch. Still, he thought, if he did get away, he might give the alarm, and find help to save Jem from being taken away. "And if they came up and found me gone," he muttered, "they would take Jem off aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent. "I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being caught; but the rope was made strong enough, warn't it?" "Yes, but it was labour in vain." "Well, p'r'aps it was, sir; but I'm proud of that rope all the same. Oh!" Jem uttered a dismal groan. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt, sir! I just am hurt--horrible. 'Member when I fell down and the tub went over me?" "And broke your ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember." "Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of 'em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I'm just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas' Don; but that arn't the worst of it, because it won't hurt me. I'm a reg'lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse." "But are you in much pain now?" "I should just think I am, Mas' Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first." "Jem, my poor fellow!" groaned Don. "Now don't go on like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk." Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him. "It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't for my Sally. A man might just as well be pulling ropes as pushing casks and winding cranes." "But we shall have to fight, Jem." "Well, so long as it's fisties I don't know as I much mind, but if they expect me to chop or shoot anybody, they're	decision the noise ceased and all was perfectly still. Don hung there thinking. What should he do--slide down and try to escape, or climb back? Jem was evidently retaken, and to escape would be cowardly, he thought; and in this spirit he began to draw himself slowly back till, after a great deal of exertion, he had contrived to get his legs beyond the eaves, and there he rested, hesitating once more. Just then he heard voices below, and holding on by one hand, he rapidly drew up a few yards of the rope, making his leg take the place of another hand. There was a good deal of talking, and he caught the word "rope," but that was all. So he continued his toilsome ascent till he was able to grasp the edge of the skylight opening, up to which he dragged himself, and sat listening, astride, as he had been before the attempt was made. All was so still that he was tempted to slide down and escape for no sound suggested that any one was on the watch. But Jem! Poor Jem! It was like leaving him in the lurch. Still, he thought, if he did get away, he might give the alarm, and find help to save Jem from being taken away. "And if they came up and found me gone," he muttered, "they would take Jem off aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be	Don Lavington
"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."	Signor Carella	very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had	it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We	it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments,	Spiridione s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. "They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?" "He does deserve her," said all	of anxiety over her welfare, for she did not settle down in the house at all. But he was comforted by a welcome and unexpected visitor. As he was going one afternoon for the letters--they were delivered at the door, but it took longer to get them at the office--some one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the custom-house at Chiasso, whom he had not met for two years. What joy! what salutations! so that all the passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene. Spiridione s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. "They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?" "He does deserve her," said all the men. It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it. There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church--quite a good caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And	am young, am at all events a man, and know what is right." He found her still in the living-room, combing her hair, for she had something of the slattern in her nature, and there was no need to keep up appearances. "You must not go out alone," he said gently. "It is not safe. If you want to walk, Perfetta shall accompany you." Perfetta was a widowed cousin, too humble for social aspirations, who was living with them as factotum. "Very well," smiled Lilia, "very well" "--as if she were addressing a solicitous kitten. But for all that she never took a solitary walk again, with one exception, till the day of her death. Days passed, and no one called except poor relatives. She began to feel dull. Didn t he know the Sindaco or the bank manager? Even the landlady of the Stella d Italia would be better than no one. She, when she went into the town, was pleasantly received; but people naturally found a difficulty in getting on with a lady who could not learn their language. And the tea-party, under Gino s adroit management, receded ever and ever before her. He had a good deal of anxiety over her welfare, for she did not settle down in the house at all. But he was comforted by a welcome and unexpected visitor. As he was going one afternoon for the letters--they were delivered at the door, but it took longer to get them at the office--some one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the custom-house at Chiasso, whom he had not met for two years. What joy! what salutations! so that all the passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene. Spiridione s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. "They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?" "He does deserve her," said all the men. It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it. There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church--quite a good caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And though vermouth is barely alcoholic, Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it should not get into his head. They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments alternated curiously with gentle horseplay. But soon they put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke. "Tell me," said Spiridione--" "I forgot to ask--is she young?" "Thirty-three." "Ah, well, we cannot have everything." "But you would be surprised. Had she told me twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her." "Is she SIMPATICA?" (Nothing will translate that word.) Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence, "Sufficiently so." "It is a most important thing." "She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she addresses her inferiors without haughtiness." There was another silence. "It is not sufficient," said the other. "One does not define it thus." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Last month a German was smuggling cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused because I did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring happiness. NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and the fine for deception besides." "Do you gain much beyond your pay?" asked Gino,	the great question of our life has been solved, and the brotherhood of man is a reality. But is accomplished at the expense of the sisterhood of women. Why should you not make friends with your neighbour at the theatre or in the train, when you know and he knows that feminine criticism and feminine insight and feminine prejudice will never come between you? Though you become as David and Jonathan, you need never enter his home, nor he yours. All your lives you will meet under the open air, the only roof-tree of the South, under which he will spit and swear, and you will drop your h s, and nobody will think the worse of either. Meanwhile the women--they have, of course, their house and their church, with its admirable and frequent services, to which they are escorted by the maid. Otherwise they do not go out much, for it is not genteel to walk, and you are too poor to keep a carriage. Occasionally you will take them to the caffe or theatre, and immediately all your wonted acquaintance there desert you, except those few who are expecting and expected to marry into your family. It is all very sad. But one consolation emerges--life is very pleasant in Italy if you are a man. Hitherto Gino had not interfered with Lilia. She was so much older than he was, and so much richer, that he regarded her as a superior being who answered to other laws. He was not wholly surprised, for strange rumours were always blowing over the Alps of lands where men and women had the same amusements and interests, and he had often met that privileged maniac, the lady tourist, on her solitary walks. Lilia took solitary walks too, and only that week a tramp had grabbed at her watch--an episode which is supposed to be indigenous in Italy, though really less frequent there than in Bond Street. Now that he knew her better, he was inevitably losing his awe: no one could live with her and keep it, especially when she had been so silly as to lose a gold watch and chain. As he lay thoughtful along the parapet, he realized for the first time the responsibilities of monied life. He must save her from dangers, physical and social, for after all she was a woman. "And I," he reflected, "though I am young, am at all events a man, and know what is right." He found her still in the living-room, combing her hair, for she had something of the slattern in her nature, and there was no need to keep up appearances. "You must not go out alone," he said gently. "It is not safe. If you want to walk, Perfetta shall accompany you." Perfetta was a widowed cousin, too humble for social aspirations, who was living with them as factotum. "Very well," smiled Lilia, "very well" "--as if she were addressing a solicitous kitten. But for all that she never took a solitary walk again, with one exception, till the day of her death. Days passed, and no one called except poor relatives. She began to feel dull. Didn t he know the Sindaco or the bank manager? Even the landlady of the Stella d Italia would be better than no one. She, when she went into the town, was pleasantly received; but people naturally found a difficulty in getting on with a lady who could not learn their language. And the tea-party, under Gino s adroit management, receded ever and ever before her. He had a good deal of anxiety over her welfare, for she did not settle down in the house at all. But he was comforted by a welcome and unexpected visitor. As he was going one afternoon for the letters--they were delivered at the door, but it took longer to get them at the office--some one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the custom-house at Chiasso, whom he had not met for two years. What joy! what salutations! so that all the passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene. Spiridione s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. "They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?" "He does deserve her," said all the men. It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it. There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church--quite a good caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And though vermouth is barely alcoholic, Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it should not get into his head. They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments alternated curiously with gentle horseplay. But soon they put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke. "Tell me," said Spiridione--" "I forgot to ask--is she young?" "Thirty-three." "Ah, well, we cannot have everything." "But you would be surprised. Had she told me twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her." "Is she SIMPATICA?" (Nothing will translate that word.) Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence, "Sufficiently so." "It is a most important thing." "She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she addresses her inferiors without haughtiness." There was another silence. "It is not sufficient," said the other. "One does not define it thus." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Last month a German was smuggling cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused because I did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring happiness. NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and the fine for deception besides." "Do you gain much beyond your pay?" asked Gino, diverted for an instant. "I do not accept small sums now. It is not worth the risk. But the German was another matter. But listen, my Gino, for I am older than you and more full of experience. The person who understands us at first sight, who never irritates us, who never bores, to whom we can pour forth every thought and wish, not only in speech but in silence--that is what I mean by SIMPATICO." "There are such men, I know," said Gino. "And I have heard it said of children. But where will you find such a woman?" "That is true. Here you are wiser than I. SONO POCO SIMPATICHE LE DONNE. And the time we waste over them is much." He sighed dolefully, as if he found the nobility of his sex a burden. "One I have seen who may be so. She spoke very little, but she was a young lady--different to most. She, too, was English, the companion of my wife here. But Fra Filippo, the brother-in-law, took her back with him. I saw them start. He was very angry." Then he spoke of his exciting and secret marriage, and they made fun of the unfortunate Philip, who had travelled over Europe to stop it. "I regret though," said Gino, when they had finished laughing, "that I toppled him on to the bed. A great tall man! And when I am really amused I am often impolite." "You will never see him again," said Spiridione, who carried plenty of philosophy about him. "And by now the scene will have passed from his mind." "It sometimes happens that such things are recollected longest. I shall never see him again, of course; but it is no benefit to me that he should wish me ill. And even if he has forgotten, I am still sorry that I toppled him on to the bed." So their talk continued, at one moment full of childishness and tender wisdom, the next moment scandalously gross. The shadows of the terra-cotta pillars lengthened, and tourists, flying through the Palazzo Pubblico opposite, could observe how the Italians wasted time. The sight of tourists reminded Gino of something he might say. "I want to consult you since you are so kind as to take an interest in my affairs. My wife wishes to take solitary walks." Spiridione was shocked. "But I have forbidden her."	them as factotum. "Very well," smiled Lilia, "very well" "--as if she were addressing a solicitous kitten. But for all that she never took a solitary walk again, with one exception, till the day of her death. Days passed, and no one called except poor relatives. She began to feel dull. Didn t he know the Sindaco or the bank manager? Even the landlady of the Stella d Italia would be better than no one. She, when she went into the town, was pleasantly received; but people naturally found a difficulty in getting on with a lady who could not learn their language. And the tea-party, under Gino s adroit management, receded ever and ever before her. He had a good deal of anxiety over her welfare, for she did not settle down in the house at all. But he was comforted by a welcome and unexpected visitor. As he was going one afternoon for the letters--they were delivered at the door, but it took longer to get them at the office--some one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the custom-house at Chiasso, whom he had not met for two years. What joy! what salutations! so that all the passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene. Spiridione s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. "They all do it," he exclaimed, "myself excepted." He was not quite twenty-three. "But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?" "Immensely rich." "Blonde or dark?" "Blonde." "Is it possible!" "It pleases me very much," said Gino simply.<\|quote\|>"If you remember, I always desired a blonde."</\|quote\|>Three or four men had collected, and were listening. "We all desire one," said Spiridione. "But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well." "No compliments, I beg," said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. "Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?" "He does deserve her," said all the men. It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it. There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church--quite a good caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And though vermouth is barely alcoholic, Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it should not get into his head. They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments alternated curiously with gentle horseplay. But soon they put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke. "Tell me," said Spiridione--" "I forgot to ask--is she young?" "Thirty-three." "Ah, well, we cannot have everything." "But you would be surprised. Had she told me twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her." "Is she SIMPATICA?" (Nothing will translate that word.) Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence, "Sufficiently so." "It is a most important thing." "She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she addresses her inferiors without haughtiness." There was another silence. "It is not sufficient," said the other. "One does not define it thus." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Last month a German was smuggling cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused because I did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring happiness. NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and the fine for deception besides." "Do you gain much beyond your pay?" asked Gino, diverted for an instant. "I do not accept small sums now. It is not worth the risk. But the German was another matter. But listen, my	Where Angels Fear To Tread
said he to the princess,	No speaker	ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom	distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under	the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty	object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been	except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of	portico, the princess came and threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects. The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house." "Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the	to the house, gave them an account of her having consulted the Bird, as they had agreed she should, and the answer he had given her; the objection she had raised to preparing a dish of cucumbers stuffed full of pearls, and how he had told her where to find this box. The sister and brothers formed many conjectures to penetrate into what the Bird could mean by ordering them to prepare such a dish; but after much conversation, they agreed to follow his advice exactly. As soon as the princess entered the house, she called for the head cook; and after she had given him directions about the entertainment for the emperor, said to him: "Besides all this, you must dress an extraordinary dish for the emperor's own eating, which nobody else must have anything to do with besides yourself. This dish must be of cucumbers stuffed with these pearls;" and at the same time she opened him the box, and showed him the jewels. The chief cook, who had never heard of such a dish, started back, and showed his thoughts by his looks; which the princess penetrating, said: "I see you take me to be mad to order such a dish, which one may say with certainty was never made. I know this as well as you; but I am not mad, and give you these orders with the most perfect recollection. You must invent and do the best you can, and bring me back what pearls are left." The cook could make no reply, but took the box and retired; and afterward the princess gave directions to all the domestics to have everything in order, both in the house and gardens, to receive the emperor. Next day the two princes went to the place appointed, and as soon as the emperor of Persia arrived the chase began and lasted till the heat of the sun obliged him to leave off. While Prince Bahman stayed to conduct the emperor to their house, Prince Perviz rode before to show the way, and when he came in sight of the house, spurred his horse, to inform the princess that the emperor was approaching; but she had been told by some servants whom she had placed to give notice, and the prince found her waiting ready to receive him. When the emperor had entered the court-yard and alighted at the portico, the princess came and threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects. The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house." "Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird." As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the Talking Bird, which your majesty may see in a cage in one of the windows of the hall we are approaching; and if you attend, you will perceive that his notes are sweeter than those of any of the other birds, even the nightingale's." The emperor went into the hall; and as the Bird continued singing, the princess raised her voice, and said, "My slave, here is the emperor, pay your compliments to him." The Bird left off singing that instant, when all the other birds ceased also, and said: "The emperor is welcome; God prosper him and prolong his life!" As the entertainment was served on the sofa near the window where the Bird was placed, the sultan replied, as he was taking his seat: "Bird, I thank you, and am overjoyed to find in you the sultan and king of birds." As soon as the emperor saw the dish of cucumbers set before him, thinking they were prepared in the best manner, he reached out his hand and took one; but when he cut it, was in extreme surprise to find it stuffed with pearls. "What novelty is this?" said he; "and with what design were these cucumbers stuffed thus with pearls, since pearls are not to be eaten?" He looked	from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter,"<\|quote\|>said he to the princess,</\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history	Arabian Nights (1)
"None!"	Mary Cavendish	she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when	over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and	my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally	whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped	a Polish Jew, anyway." "A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the" she looked at him "stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman." Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide. "Mary!" "Well?" Her tone did not change. The pleading died out of his voice. "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?" "If I choose." "You defy me?" "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in	yawned again. Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of course, it was all a bad dream. The truth of the matter was that it was Lawrence who had murdered Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet. But it was absurd of John to make such a fuss about it, and to go shouting out: "I tell you I won't have it!" I woke up with a start. At once I realized that I was in a very awkward predicament. For, about twelve feet away from me, John and Mary Cavendish were standing facing each other, and they were evidently quarrelling. And, quite as evidently, they were unaware of my vicinity, for before I could move or speak John repeated the words which had aroused me from my dream. "I tell you, Mary, I won't have it." Mary's voice came, cool and liquid: "Have _you_ any right to criticize my actions?" "It will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried on Saturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow." "Oh," she shrugged her shoulders, "if it is only village gossip that you mind!" "But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway." "A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the" she looked at him "stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman." Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide. "Mary!" "Well?" Her tone did not change. The pleading died out of his voice. "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?" "If I choose." "You defy me?" "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?" "Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except one of us." Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be	Lawrence your message," I said. "And what did he say? He was entirely puzzled?" "Yes. I am quite sure he had no idea of what you meant." I had expected Poirot to be disappointed; but, to my surprise, he replied that that was as he had thought, and that he was very glad. My pride forbade me to ask any questions. Poirot switched off on another tack. "Mademoiselle Cynthia was not at lunch to-day? How was that?" "She is at the hospital again. She resumed work to-day." "Ah, she is an industrious little demoiselle. And pretty too. She is like pictures I have seen in Italy. I would rather like to see that dispensary of hers. Do you think she would show it to me?" "I am sure she would be delighted. It's an interesting little place." "Does she go there every day?" "She has all Wednesdays off, and comes back to lunch on Saturdays. Those are her only times off." "I will remember. Women are doing great work nowadays, and Mademoiselle Cynthia is clever oh, yes, she has brains, that little one." "Yes. I believe she has passed quite a stiff exam." "Without doubt. After all, it is very responsible work. I suppose they have very strong poisons there?" "Yes, she showed them to us. They are kept locked up in a little cupboard. I believe they have to be very careful. They always take out the key before leaving the room." "Indeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?" "No, right the other side of the room. Why?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "I wondered. That is all. Will you come in?" We had reached the cottage. "No. I think I'll be getting back. I shall go round the long way through the woods." The woods round Styles were very beautiful. After the walk across the open park, it was pleasant to saunter lazily through the cool glades. There was hardly a breath of wind, the very chirp of the birds was faint and subdued. I strolled on a little way, and finally flung myself down at the foot of a grand old beech-tree. My thoughts of mankind were kindly and charitable. I even forgave Poirot for his absurd secrecy. In fact, I was at peace with the world. Then I yawned. I thought about the crime, and it struck me as being very unreal and far off. I yawned again. Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of course, it was all a bad dream. The truth of the matter was that it was Lawrence who had murdered Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet. But it was absurd of John to make such a fuss about it, and to go shouting out: "I tell you I won't have it!" I woke up with a start. At once I realized that I was in a very awkward predicament. For, about twelve feet away from me, John and Mary Cavendish were standing facing each other, and they were evidently quarrelling. And, quite as evidently, they were unaware of my vicinity, for before I could move or speak John repeated the words which had aroused me from my dream. "I tell you, Mary, I won't have it." Mary's voice came, cool and liquid: "Have _you_ any right to criticize my actions?" "It will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried on Saturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow." "Oh," she shrugged her shoulders, "if it is only village gossip that you mind!" "But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway." "A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the" she looked at him "stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman." Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide. "Mary!" "Well?" Her tone did not change. The pleading died out of his voice. "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?" "If I choose." "You defy me?" "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?" "Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except one of us." Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless - A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all. "No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?" "I know, but, still, who else is there?" "Can't you guess?" "No." I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice. "Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered. "Impossible!" "Not at all." "But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?" "That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell you this: Poirot thinks so." "Poirot? Does he? How do you know?" I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added: "He said twice:" That alters everything.' "And I've been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?" "H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky." "Yes, but it was possible." "And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don't think that will wash." But I had remembered something else. "You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen." And I then told him of the cocoa sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed. John interrupted just as I had done. "But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?" "Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it either until now. Don't you understand? Bauerstein had it analysed that's just it! If Bauerstein's the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute some ordinary cocoa for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of course they would find no strychnine! But no one would dream of suspecting Bauerstein, or think of taking another sample except Poirot," I added, with belated recognition. "Yes, but what about the bitter taste that cocoa won't disguise?" "Well, we've only his word for that. And there are other possibilities. He's admittedly one of the world's greatest toxicologists" "One of the world's greatest what? Say it again." "He knows more about poisons than almost anybody," I explained. "Well,	hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway." "A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the" she looked at him "stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman." Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide. "Mary!" "Well?" Her tone did not change. The pleading died out of his voice. "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?" "If I choose." "You defy me?" "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?" John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face. "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice. "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?" John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face. "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary" For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.<\|quote\|>"None!"</\|quote\|>She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. "Mary" his voice was very quiet now "are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled. She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder. "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone. Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene. "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?" "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day." "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!" "You find it so?" I asked. "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?" "Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever." "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again." "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject." "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that." "What?" John lowered his voice: "Have you ever thought, Hastings it's a nightmare to me who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because because who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except one of us." Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless - A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all. "No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?" "I know, but, still, who else is there?" "Can't you guess?" "No." I looked cautiously round, and lowered	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"	Alexis Ivanovitch	and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view	and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And	good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have	"But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they,	past he had been feeling ashamed of being seen in such company, and this had proved the last straw. An hour later we had lost everything in hand. "Home!" cried the Grandmother. Not until we had turned into the Avenue did she utter a word; but from that point onwards, until we arrived at the hotel, she kept venting exclamations of "What a fool I am! What a silly old fool I am, to be sure!" Arrived at the hotel, she called for tea, and then gave orders for her luggage to be packed. "We are off again," she announced. "But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De	Away with you, I say!" "Mais, Madame," cooed De Griers and straightway started afresh with his fussy instructions. "Stake just _once_, as he advises," the Grandmother said to me, "and then we shall see what we _shall_ see. Of course, his stake _might_ win." As a matter of fact, De Grier s one object was to distract the old lady from staking large sums; wherefore, he now suggested to her that she should stake upon certain numbers, singly and in groups. Consequently, in accordance with his instructions, I staked a ten-g lden piece upon several odd numbers in the first twenty, and five ten-g lden pieces upon certain groups of numbers-groups of from twelve to eighteen, and from eighteen to twenty-four. The total staked amounted to 160 g lden. The wheel revolved. "Zero!" cried the croupier. We had lost it all! "The fool!" cried the old lady as she turned upon De Griers. "You infernal Frenchman, to think that _you_ should advise! Away with you! Though you fuss and fuss, you don t even know what you re talking about." Deeply offended, De Griers shrugged his shoulders, favoured the Grandmother with a look of contempt, and departed. For some time past he had been feeling ashamed of being seen in such company, and this had proved the last straw. An hour later we had lost everything in hand. "Home!" cried the Grandmother. Not until we had turned into the Avenue did she utter a word; but from that point onwards, until we arrived at the hotel, she kept venting exclamations of "What a fool I am! What a silly old fool I am, to be sure!" Arrived at the hotel, she called for tea, and then gave orders for her luggage to be packed. "We are off again," she announced. "But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De Griers "come sneaking here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me,	when she would be at liberty to stake more. But she was so impatient that, though at first she agreed to do as I suggested, nothing could stop her when once she had begun. By way of prelude she won stakes of a hundred and two hundred g lden. "There you are!" she said as she nudged me. "See what we have won! Surely it would be worth our while to stake four thousand instead of a hundred, for we might win another four thousand, and then ! Oh, it was YOUR fault before all your fault!" I felt greatly put out as I watched her play, but I decided to hold my tongue, and to give her no more advice. Suddenly De Griers appeared on the scene. It seemed that all this while he and his companions had been standing beside us though I noticed that Mlle. Blanche had withdrawn a little from the rest, and was engaged in flirting with the Prince. Clearly the General was greatly put out at this. Indeed, he was in a perfect agony of vexation. But Mlle. was careful never to look his way, though he did his best to attract her notice. Poor General! By turns his face blanched and reddened, and he was trembling to such an extent that he could scarcely follow the old lady s play. At length Mlle. and the Prince took their departure, and the General followed them. "Madame, Madame," sounded the honeyed accents of De Griers as he leant over to whisper in the Grandmother s ear. "That stake will never win. No, no, it is impossible," he added in Russian with a writhe. "No, no!" "But why not?" asked the Grandmother, turning round. "Show me what I ought to do." Instantly De Griers burst into a babble of French as he advised, jumped about, declared that such and such chances ought to be waited for, and started to make calculations of figures. All this he addressed to me in my capacity as translator tapping the table the while with his finger, and pointing hither and thither. At length he seized a pencil, and began to reckon sums on paper until he had exhausted the Grandmother s patience. "Away with you!" she interrupted. "You talk sheer nonsense, for, though you keep on saying" Madame, Madame, "you haven t the least notion what ought to be done. Away with you, I say!" "Mais, Madame," cooed De Griers and straightway started afresh with his fussy instructions. "Stake just _once_, as he advises," the Grandmother said to me, "and then we shall see what we _shall_ see. Of course, his stake _might_ win." As a matter of fact, De Grier s one object was to distract the old lady from staking large sums; wherefore, he now suggested to her that she should stake upon certain numbers, singly and in groups. Consequently, in accordance with his instructions, I staked a ten-g lden piece upon several odd numbers in the first twenty, and five ten-g lden pieces upon certain groups of numbers-groups of from twelve to eighteen, and from eighteen to twenty-four. The total staked amounted to 160 g lden. The wheel revolved. "Zero!" cried the croupier. We had lost it all! "The fool!" cried the old lady as she turned upon De Griers. "You infernal Frenchman, to think that _you_ should advise! Away with you! Though you fuss and fuss, you don t even know what you re talking about." Deeply offended, De Griers shrugged his shoulders, favoured the Grandmother with a look of contempt, and departed. For some time past he had been feeling ashamed of being seen in such company, and this had proved the last straw. An hour later we had lost everything in hand. "Home!" cried the Grandmother. Not until we had turned into the Avenue did she utter a word; but from that point onwards, until we arrived at the hotel, she kept venting exclamations of "What a fool I am! What a silly old fool I am, to be sure!" Arrived at the hotel, she called for tea, and then gave orders for her luggage to be packed. "We are off again," she announced. "But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De Griers "come sneaking here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?" "I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma," replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the	odd numbers in the first twenty, and five ten-g lden pieces upon certain groups of numbers-groups of from twelve to eighteen, and from eighteen to twenty-four. The total staked amounted to 160 g lden. The wheel revolved. "Zero!" cried the croupier. We had lost it all! "The fool!" cried the old lady as she turned upon De Griers. "You infernal Frenchman, to think that _you_ should advise! Away with you! Though you fuss and fuss, you don t even know what you re talking about." Deeply offended, De Griers shrugged his shoulders, favoured the Grandmother with a look of contempt, and departed. For some time past he had been feeling ashamed of being seen in such company, and this had proved the last straw. An hour later we had lost everything in hand. "Home!" cried the Grandmother. Not until we had turned into the Avenue did she utter a word; but from that point onwards, until we arrived at the hotel, she kept venting exclamations of "What a fool I am! What a silly old fool I am, to be sure!" Arrived at the hotel, she called for tea, and then gave orders for her luggage to be packed. "We are off again," she announced. "But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill."<\|quote\|>"The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame,"</\|quote\|>I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De Griers "come sneaking here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?" "I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma," replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out	The Gambler
Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.	No speaker	our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on,"	truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so,	you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme,	concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of	here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir," "--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object	I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir," "--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--" "His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most	ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself," "Your obliged and affectionate Son, F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL." CHAPTER XV This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir," "--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--" "His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--" "Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers." "I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter. "'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?" "She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?" "Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!" "I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him." "Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her." 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' "I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--" 'Happier than I deserve.' "Come, he knows himself there." 'Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.' "--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?-- And a fine ending--and there is the letter. The child of good fortune! That was your name for him, was it?" "You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you." "Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another person's interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject." The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was	the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here." "And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"<\|quote\|>Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.</\|quote\|>"You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir," "--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--" "His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--" "Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers." "I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter. "'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?" "She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?" "Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!" "I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him." "Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her." 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' "I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--" 'Happier than I deserve.' "Come, he knows	Emma
He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:	No speaker	because she knew the truth."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"I ruin my career, no	him. "Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"I ruin my career, no matter; we are all to	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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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	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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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, "Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever." The tumult increased, the invocation of	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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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, "Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever." 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	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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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, "Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever." 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	too much agitated with the defeat to British prestige to be interested. From where she sat, she could see the renegade Mr. Fielding. She had had a better view of him from the platform, and knew that an Indian child perched on his knee. He was watching the proceedings, watching her. When their eyes met, he turned his away, as if direct intercourse was of no interest to him. The Magistrate was also happier. He had won the battle of the platform, and gained confidence. Intelligent and impartial, he continued to listen to the evidence, and tried to forget that later on he should 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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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, "Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever." 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,	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."<\|quote\|>He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying above the tumult:</\|quote\|>"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, "Aziz, Aziz farewell for ever." 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	A Passage To India
"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."	Antonida Vassilievna Tarassevitcha	wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great	any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and	could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do	mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But	with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?" "I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred	continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?" "I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred g lden for yourself." "I thank you humbly, Madame, but I am ashamed to" "Come, come!" cried the Grandmother so energetically, and with such an air of menace, that I did not dare refuse the money further. "If, when in Moscow, you have no place where you can lay your head," she added, "come and see me, and I will give you a recommendation. Now, Potapitch, get things ready." I ascended to my room, and lay down upon the bed. A whole hour I must have lain thus, with my head resting upon my hand. So the crisis had come! I needed time for its consideration. To-morrow I would have a talk with Polina. Ah! The Frenchman! So, it was true? But how could it be so? Polina and De Griers! What a combination! No, it was too improbable. Suddenly I leapt up with the idea of seeking Astley and forcing him to speak. There could be no doubt that he knew more than I did. Astley? Well, he was another problem for me to solve. Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and I opened it to find Potapitch awaiting me. "Sir," he said, "my mistress is asking	the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?" "I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma," replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?" "I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred g lden for yourself." "I thank you humbly, Madame, but I am ashamed to" "Come, come!" cried the Grandmother so energetically, and with such an air of menace, that I did not dare refuse the money further. "If, when in Moscow, you have no place where you can lay your head," she added, "come and see me, and I will give you a recommendation. Now, Potapitch, get things ready." I ascended to my room, and lay down upon the bed. A whole hour I must have lain thus, with my head resting upon my hand. So the crisis had come! I needed time for its consideration. To-morrow I would have a talk with Polina. Ah! The Frenchman! So, it was true? But how could it be so? Polina and De Griers! What a combination! No, it was too improbable. Suddenly I leapt up with the idea of seeking Astley and forcing him to speak. There could be no doubt that he knew more than I did. Astley? Well, he was another problem for me to solve. Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and I opened it to find Potapitch awaiting me. "Sir," he said, "my mistress is asking for you." "Indeed? But she is just departing, is she not? The train leaves in ten minutes time." "She is uneasy, sir; she cannot rest. Come quickly, sir; do not delay." I ran downstairs at once. The Grandmother was just being carried out of her rooms into the corridor. In her hands she held a roll of bank-notes. "Alexis Ivanovitch," she cried, "walk on ahead, and we will set out again." "But whither, Madame?" "I cannot rest until I have retrieved my losses. March on ahead, and ask me no questions. Play continues until midnight, does it not?" For a moment I stood stupefied stood deep in thought; but it was not long before I had made up my mind. "With your leave, Madame," I said, "I will not go with you." "And why not? What do you mean? Is every one here a stupid good-for-nothing?" "Pardon me, but I have nothing to reproach myself with. I merely will not go. I merely intend neither to witness nor to join in your play. I also beg to return you your five hundred g lden. Farewell." Laying the money upon a little table which the Grandmother s chair happened to be passing, I bowed and withdrew. "What folly!" the Grandmother shouted after me. "Very well, then. Do not come, and I will find my way alone. Potapitch, you must come with me. Lift up the chair, and carry me along." I failed to find Mr. Astley, and returned home. It was now growing late it was past midnight, but I subsequently learnt from Potapitch how the Grandmother s day had ended. She had lost all the money which, earlier in the day, I had got for her paper securities a sum amounting to about ten thousand roubles. This she did under the direction of the Pole whom, that afternoon, she had dowered with two ten-g lden pieces. But before his arrival on the scene, she had commanded Potapitch to stake for her; until at length she had told him also to go about his business. Upon that the Pole had leapt into the breach. Not only did it happen that he knew the Russian language, but also he could speak a mixture of three different dialects, so that the pair were able to understand one another. Yet the old lady never ceased to abuse him, despite his deferential manner, and to	telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?" "I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3]<\|quote\|>"can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort."</\|quote\|>[3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred g lden for yourself." "I thank you humbly, Madame, but I am ashamed to" "Come, come!" cried the Grandmother so energetically, and with such an air of menace, that I did not dare refuse the money further. "If, when in Moscow, you have no place where you can lay your head," she added, "come and see me, and I will give you a recommendation. Now, Potapitch, get things ready." I ascended to my room, and lay down upon the bed. A whole hour I must have lain thus, with my head resting upon my hand. So the crisis had come! I needed time for its consideration. To-morrow I would have a talk with Polina. Ah! The Frenchman! So, it was true? But how could it be so? Polina and De Griers! What a combination! No, it was too improbable. Suddenly I leapt up with the idea of seeking Astley and forcing him to speak. There could be no doubt that he knew more than I did. Astley? Well, he was another problem for me to solve. Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and I opened it to find Potapitch awaiting me. "Sir," he said, "my mistress is asking for you." "Indeed? But she is just departing, is she not? The train leaves in ten minutes time." "She is uneasy, sir; she	The Gambler
"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."	Mary Datchet	it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but	with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph	too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him.	length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely	resisted this wish. But she could not prevent him from feeling her lack of interest in what he was saying, and gradually they both became silent. One thought after another came up in Ralph s mind, but they were all, in some way, connected with Katharine, or with vague feelings of romance and adventure such as she inspired. But he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts; and he pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling. "Here," he thought, "is where we differ from women; they have no sense of romance." "Well, Mary," he said at length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely that Katharine, on leaving the scene which she had so clearly despised, had pronounced some such criticism, or suggested it by her own attitude. But she knew that Ralph would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody. "You don t read enough, Mary," he was saying. "You ought to read more poetry." It was true that Mary s reading had been rather limited to such works as she needed to know for the sake of examinations; and her time for reading in London was very little. For some reason, no one likes to be told that they do	Mr. Asquith deserves to be hanged?" she called back into the sitting-room, and when she joined him, drying her hands, she began to tell him about the latest evasion on the part of the Government with respect to the Women s Suffrage Bill. Ralph did not want to talk about politics, but he could not help respecting Mary for taking such an interest in public questions. He looked at her as she leant forward, poking the fire, and expressing herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the taint of the platform, and he thought, "How absurd Mary would think me if she knew that I almost made up my mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at Katharine s windows. She wouldn t understand it, but I like her very much as she is." For some time they discussed what the women had better do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the question, Mary unconsciously let her attention wander, and a great desire came over her to talk to Ralph about her own feelings; or, at any rate, about something personal, so that she might see what he felt for her; but she resisted this wish. But she could not prevent him from feeling her lack of interest in what he was saying, and gradually they both became silent. One thought after another came up in Ralph s mind, but they were all, in some way, connected with Katharine, or with vague feelings of romance and adventure such as she inspired. But he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts; and he pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling. "Here," he thought, "is where we differ from women; they have no sense of romance." "Well, Mary," he said at length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely that Katharine, on leaving the scene which she had so clearly despised, had pronounced some such criticism, or suggested it by her own attitude. But she knew that Ralph would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody. "You don t read enough, Mary," he was saying. "You ought to read more poetry." It was true that Mary s reading had been rather limited to such works as she needed to know for the sake of examinations; and her time for reading in London was very little. For some reason, no one likes to be told that they do not read enough poetry, but her resentment was only visible in the way she changed the position of her hands, and in the fixed look in her eyes. And then she thought to herself, "I m behaving exactly as I said I wouldn t behave," whereupon she relaxed all her muscles and said, in her reasonable way: "Tell me what I ought to read, then." Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary, and he now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of Mary s character and way of life. "You live with your inferiors," he said, warming unreasonably, as he knew, to his text. "And you get into a groove because, on the whole, it s rather a pleasant groove. And you tend to forget what you re there for. You ve the feminine habit of making much of details. You don t see when things matter and when they don t. And that s what s the ruin of all these organizations. That s why the Suffragists have never done anything all these years. What s the point of drawing-room meetings and bazaars? You want to	only an illustration of the argument that was going forward in his mind. In this spirit he noticed the rather set expression in her eyes, and the slight, half-conscious movement of her lips, which, together with her height and the distinction of her dress, made her look as if the scurrying crowd impeded her, and her direction were different from theirs. He noticed this calmly; but suddenly, as he passed her, his hands and knees began to tremble, and his heart beat painfully. She did not see him, and went on repeating to herself some lines which had stuck to her memory: "It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all." Thus occupied, she did not see Denham, and he had not the courage to stop her. But immediately the whole scene in the Strand wore that curious look of order and purpose which is imparted to the most heterogeneous things when music sounds; and so pleasant was this impression that he was very glad that he had not stopped her, after all. It grew slowly fainter, but lasted until he stood outside the barrister s chambers. When his interview with the barrister was over, it was too late to go back to the office. His sight of Katharine had put him queerly out of tune for a domestic evening. Where should he go? To walk through the streets of London until he came to Katharine s house, to look up at the windows and fancy her within, seemed to him possible for a moment; and then he rejected the plan almost with a blush as, with a curious division of consciousness, one plucks a flower sentimentally and throws it away, with a blush, when it is actually picked. No, he would go and see Mary Datchet. By this time she would be back from her work. To see Ralph appear unexpectedly in her room threw Mary for a second off her balance. She had been cleaning knives in her little scullery, and when she had let him in she went back again, and turned on the cold-water tap to its fullest volume, and then turned it off again. "Now," she thought to herself, as she screwed it tight, "I m not going to let these silly ideas come into my head...." "Don t you think Mr. Asquith deserves to be hanged?" she called back into the sitting-room, and when she joined him, drying her hands, she began to tell him about the latest evasion on the part of the Government with respect to the Women s Suffrage Bill. Ralph did not want to talk about politics, but he could not help respecting Mary for taking such an interest in public questions. He looked at her as she leant forward, poking the fire, and expressing herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the taint of the platform, and he thought, "How absurd Mary would think me if she knew that I almost made up my mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at Katharine s windows. She wouldn t understand it, but I like her very much as she is." For some time they discussed what the women had better do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the question, Mary unconsciously let her attention wander, and a great desire came over her to talk to Ralph about her own feelings; or, at any rate, about something personal, so that she might see what he felt for her; but she resisted this wish. But she could not prevent him from feeling her lack of interest in what he was saying, and gradually they both became silent. One thought after another came up in Ralph s mind, but they were all, in some way, connected with Katharine, or with vague feelings of romance and adventure such as she inspired. But he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts; and he pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling. "Here," he thought, "is where we differ from women; they have no sense of romance." "Well, Mary," he said at length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely that Katharine, on leaving the scene which she had so clearly despised, had pronounced some such criticism, or suggested it by her own attitude. But she knew that Ralph would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody. "You don t read enough, Mary," he was saying. "You ought to read more poetry." It was true that Mary s reading had been rather limited to such works as she needed to know for the sake of examinations; and her time for reading in London was very little. For some reason, no one likes to be told that they do not read enough poetry, but her resentment was only visible in the way she changed the position of her hands, and in the fixed look in her eyes. And then she thought to herself, "I m behaving exactly as I said I wouldn t behave," whereupon she relaxed all her muscles and said, in her reasonable way: "Tell me what I ought to read, then." Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary, and he now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of Mary s character and way of life. "You live with your inferiors," he said, warming unreasonably, as he knew, to his text. "And you get into a groove because, on the whole, it s rather a pleasant groove. And you tend to forget what you re there for. You ve the feminine habit of making much of details. You don t see when things matter and when they don t. And that s what s the ruin of all these organizations. That s why the Suffragists have never done anything all these years. What s the point of drawing-room meetings and bazaars? You want to have ideas, Mary; get hold of something big; never mind making mistakes, but don t niggle. Why don t you throw it all up for a year, and travel? see something of the world. Don t be content to live with half a dozen people in a backwater all your life. But you won t," he concluded. "I ve rather come to that way of thinking myself about myself, I mean," said Mary, surprising him by her acquiescence. "I should like to go somewhere far away." For a moment they were both silent. Ralph then said: "But look here, Mary, you haven t been taking this seriously, have you?" His irritation was spent, and the depression, which she could not keep out of her voice, made him feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her. "You won t go away, will you?" he asked. And as she said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away." "I don t know exactly what I mean to do," she replied. She hovered on the verge of some discussion of her plans, but she received no encouragement. He fell into one of his queer silences, which seemed to Mary, in spite of all her precautions, to have reference to what she also could not prevent herself from thinking about their feeling for each other and their relationship. She felt that the two lines of thought bored their way in long, parallel tunnels which came very close indeed, but never ran into each other. When he had gone, and he left her without breaking his silence more than was needed to wish her good night, she sat on for a time, reviewing what he had said. If love is a devastating fire which melts the whole being into one mountain torrent, Mary was no more in love with Denham than she was in love with her poker or her tongs. But probably these extreme passions are very rare, and the state of mind thus depicted belongs to the very last stages of love, when the power to resist has been eaten away, week by week or day by day. Like most intelligent people, Mary was something of an egoist, to the extent, that is, of attaching great importance to what she felt, and she was by nature enough of a moralist to like to make certain, from time to time, that	London until he came to Katharine s house, to look up at the windows and fancy her within, seemed to him possible for a moment; and then he rejected the plan almost with a blush as, with a curious division of consciousness, one plucks a flower sentimentally and throws it away, with a blush, when it is actually picked. No, he would go and see Mary Datchet. By this time she would be back from her work. To see Ralph appear unexpectedly in her room threw Mary for a second off her balance. She had been cleaning knives in her little scullery, and when she had let him in she went back again, and turned on the cold-water tap to its fullest volume, and then turned it off again. "Now," she thought to herself, as she screwed it tight, "I m not going to let these silly ideas come into my head...." "Don t you think Mr. Asquith deserves to be hanged?" she called back into the sitting-room, and when she joined him, drying her hands, she began to tell him about the latest evasion on the part of the Government with respect to the Women s Suffrage Bill. Ralph did not want to talk about politics, but he could not help respecting Mary for taking such an interest in public questions. He looked at her as she leant forward, poking the fire, and expressing herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the taint of the platform, and he thought, "How absurd Mary would think me if she knew that I almost made up my mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at Katharine s windows. She wouldn t understand it, but I like her very much as she is." For some time they discussed what the women had better do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the question, Mary unconsciously let her attention wander, and a great desire came over her to talk to Ralph about her own feelings; or, at any rate, about something personal, so that she might see what he felt for her; but she resisted this wish. But she could not prevent him from feeling her lack of interest in what he was saying, and gradually they both became silent. One thought after another came up in Ralph s mind, but they were all, in some way, connected with Katharine, or with vague feelings of romance and adventure such as she inspired. But he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts; and he pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling. "Here," he thought, "is where we differ from women; they have no sense of romance." "Well, Mary," he said at length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly.<\|quote\|>"But only a week ago you were saying the opposite."</\|quote\|>Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely that Katharine, on leaving the scene which she had so clearly despised, had pronounced some such criticism, or suggested it by her own attitude. But she knew that Ralph would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody. "You don t read enough, Mary," he was saying. "You ought to read more poetry." It was true that Mary s reading had been rather limited to such works as she needed to know for the sake of examinations; and her time for reading in London was very little. For some reason, no one likes to be told that they do not read enough poetry, but her resentment was only visible in the way she changed the position of her hands, and in the fixed look in her eyes. And then she thought to herself, "I m behaving exactly as I said I wouldn t behave," whereupon she relaxed all her muscles and said, in her reasonable way: "Tell me what I ought to read, then." Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary, and he now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of Mary s character and way of life. "You live with your inferiors," he said, warming unreasonably, as he knew, to his text. "And you get into a groove because, on the whole, it s rather a pleasant groove. And you tend to forget what you re there for. You ve the feminine habit of making much of details. You don t see when things matter and when they don t. And that s what s the ruin of all these organizations. That s why the Suffragists have never done anything all these years. What s the point of drawing-room meetings and bazaars? You want to have ideas, Mary; get hold of something big; never mind making mistakes, but don t niggle. Why don t you throw it all up for a year, and travel? see something of the world. Don t be content to live with half a dozen people in a backwater all your life. But you won t," he concluded. "I ve rather come to that way of thinking myself about myself, I mean," said Mary, surprising him by her acquiescence. "I should like to go somewhere far away." For a moment they were both silent. Ralph then said: "But look here, Mary, you haven t been taking this seriously, have you?" His irritation was spent, and the depression, which she could not keep out of her voice, made him feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her. "You won t go away, will you?" he asked. And as she said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away." "I don t know exactly what I mean to do," she replied. She hovered on the verge of some	Night And Day
“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”	Grace	debts.” “But to such amounts?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“And he _has_ to pay	“Kitty has debts--great heaped-up gaming debts.” “But to such amounts?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“And he _has_ to pay them? There’s no one else?”	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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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	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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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?” She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear. “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	I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father--she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.” “Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!” he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at 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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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?” She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear. “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	afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.” “Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!” he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at 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?”<\|quote\|>“Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.”</\|quote\|>“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?” She kept her eyes on him and the darkness seemed to clear. “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	The Outcry
observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.	No speaker	itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What	"but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked	the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money	take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee.	young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him. "But, yer see," observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied	like my friend, could you do better than join him?" "Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!" responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes. "The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession." "Regular town-maders?" asked Mr. Claypole. "Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now," replied Fagin. "Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket. "It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided manner. "Twenty pound, though it's a lot of money!" "Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the market." "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning." "Where?" "Here." "Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?" "Live like a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him. "But, yer see," observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. "What time to-morrow shall we say?" "Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend." "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. "Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter." "Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly." "Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole. "Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. "She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. "You understand?" "Oh yes, I understand perfectly," replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. "Good-night! Good-night!" With many adieus	"No matter who's got it, or who did it, my dear," replied Fagin, glancing, nevertheless, with a hawk's eye at the girl and the two bundles. "I'm in that way myself, and I like you for it." "In what way?" asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering. "In that way of business," rejoined Fagin; "and so are the people of the house. You've hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe here as you could be. There is not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; that is, when I like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy to you and the young woman; so I've said the word, and you may make your minds easy." Noah Claypole's mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but his body certainly was not; for he shuffled and writhed about, into various uncouth positions: eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and suspicion. "I'll tell you more," said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl, by dint of friendly nods and muttered encouragements. "I have got a friend that I think can gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right way, where you can take whatever department of the business you think will suit you best at first, and be taught all the others." "Yer speak as if yer were in earnest," replied Noah. "What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?" inquired Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "Here! Let me have a word with you outside." "There's no occasion to trouble ourselves to move," said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again. "She'll take the luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to them bundles." This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed without the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off with the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her out. "She's kept tolerably well under, ain't she?" he asked as he resumed his seat: in the tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal. "Quite perfect," rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're a genius, my dear." "Why, I suppose if I wasn't, I shouldn't be here," replied Noah. "But, I say, she'll be back if yer lose time." "Now, what do you think?" said Fagin. "If you was to like my friend, could you do better than join him?" "Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!" responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes. "The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession." "Regular town-maders?" asked Mr. Claypole. "Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now," replied Fagin. "Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket. "It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided manner. "Twenty pound, though it's a lot of money!" "Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the market." "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning." "Where?" "Here." "Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?" "Live like a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him. "But, yer see," observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. "What time to-morrow shall we say?" "Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend." "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. "Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter." "Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly." "Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole. "Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. "She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. "You understand?" "Oh yes, I understand perfectly," replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. "Good-night! Good-night!" With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady's attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity. CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE "And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?" asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, he had removed next day to Fagin's house. "Cod, I thought as much last night!" "Every man's his own friend, my dear," replied Fagin, with his most insinuating grin. "He hasn't as good a one as himself anywhere." "Except sometimes," replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the world. "Some people are nobody's enemies but their own, yer know." "Don't believe that," said Fagin. "When a man's his own enemy, it's only because he's too much his own friend; not because he's careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain't such a thing in nature." "There oughn't to be, if there is," replied Mr. Bolter. "That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. It's neither, my friend, neither. It's number one." "Ha! ha!" cried Mr. Bolter. "Number one for ever." "In a little community like ours, my dear," said Fagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this position, "we have a general number one, without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people." "Oh, the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Bolter. "You see," pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, "we are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it's your object to take care of number one meaning yourself." "Certainly," replied Mr. Bolter. "Yer about right there." "Well! You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one." "Number two, you mean," said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness. "No, I don't!" retorted Fagin. "I'm of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself." "I say," interrupted Mr. Bolter, "yer a very nice man, and I'm very fond of	better than join him?" "Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!" responded Noah, winking one of his little eyes. "The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best society in the profession." "Regular town-maders?" asked Mr. Claypole. "Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now," replied Fagin. "Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket. "It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided manner. "Twenty pound, though it's a lot of money!" "Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and date taken, I suppose? Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah! It's not worth much to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal in the market." "When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully. "To-morrow morning." "Where?" "Here." "Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?" "Live like a gentleman board and lodging, pipes and spirits free half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin. Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him. "But, yer see," observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I should like to take something very light." "A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin. "Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, you know. That's the sort of thing!" "I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much." "Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!"<\|quote\|>observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.</\|quote\|>"No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. "What time to-morrow shall we say?" "Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend." "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. "Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter." "Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly." "Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole. "Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. "She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late	Oliver Twist
"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."	Josiah Bounderby	appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on	was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from	smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it	'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily	one another, faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, "do you people, in a general way, complain of?" Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in	that man out of this blessed country?" And Mr. Bounderby pointed him out for inspection, with an angry finger. "Nay, ma'am," said Stephen Blackpool, staunchly protesting against the words that had been used, and instinctively addressing himself to Louisa, after glancing at her face. "Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o' th' kind, ma'am, nowt o' th' kind. They've not doon me a kindness, ma'am, as I know and feel. But there's not a dozen men amoong 'em, ma'am a dozen? Not six but what believes as he has doon his duty by the rest and by himseln. God forbid as I, that ha' known, and had'n experience o' these men aw my life I, that ha' ett'n an' droonken wi' 'em, an' seet'n wi' 'em, and toil'n wi' 'em, and lov'n 'em, should fail fur to stan by 'em wi' the truth, let 'em ha' doon to me what they may!" He spoke with the rugged earnestness of his place and character deepened perhaps by a proud consciousness that he was faithful to his class under all their mistrust; but he fully remembered where he was, and did not even raise his voice. "No, ma'am, no. They're true to one another, faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, "do you people, in a general way, complain of?" Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know,	"I sed as I had nowt to sen, sir; not as I was fearfo' o' openin' my lips." "You said! Ah! _I_ know what you said; more than that, I know what you mean, you see. Not always the same thing, by the Lord Harry! Quite different things. You had better tell us at once, that that fellow Slackbridge is not in the town, stirring up the people to mutiny; and that he is not a regular qualified leader of the people: that is, a most confounded scoundrel. You had better tell us so at once; you can't deceive me. You want to tell us so. Why don't you?" "I'm as sooary as yo, sir, when the people's leaders is bad," said Stephen, shaking his head. "They taks such as offers. Haply 'tis na' the sma'est o' their misfortuns when they can get no better." The wind began to get boisterous. "Now, you'll think this pretty well, Harthouse," said Mr. Bounderby. "You'll think this tolerably strong. You'll say, upon my soul this is a tidy specimen of what my friends have to deal with; but this is nothing, sir! You shall hear me ask this man a question. Pray, Mr. Blackpool" wind springing up very fast "may I take the liberty of asking you how it happens that you refused to be in this Combination?" "How 't happens?" "Ah!" said Mr. Bounderby, with his thumbs in the arms of his coat, and jerking his head and shutting his eyes in confidence with the opposite wall: "how it happens." "I'd leefer not coom to 't, sir; but sin you put th' question an' not want'n t' be ill-manner'n I'll answer. I ha passed a promess." "Not to me, you know," said Bounderby. (Gusty weather with deceitful calms. One now prevailing.) "O no, sir. Not to yo." "As for me, any consideration for me has had just nothing at all to do with it," said Bounderby, still in confidence with the wall. "If only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown had been in question, you would have joined and made no bones about it?" "Why yes, sir. 'Tis true." "Though he knows," said Mr. Bounderby, now blowing a gale, "that there are a set of rascals and rebels whom transportation is too good for! Now, Mr. Harthouse, you have been knocking about in the world some time. Did you ever meet with anything like that man out of this blessed country?" And Mr. Bounderby pointed him out for inspection, with an angry finger. "Nay, ma'am," said Stephen Blackpool, staunchly protesting against the words that had been used, and instinctively addressing himself to Louisa, after glancing at her face. "Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o' th' kind, ma'am, nowt o' th' kind. They've not doon me a kindness, ma'am, as I know and feel. But there's not a dozen men amoong 'em, ma'am a dozen? Not six but what believes as he has doon his duty by the rest and by himseln. God forbid as I, that ha' known, and had'n experience o' these men aw my life I, that ha' ett'n an' droonken wi' 'em, an' seet'n wi' 'em, and toil'n wi' 'em, and lov'n 'em, should fail fur to stan by 'em wi' the truth, let 'em ha' doon to me what they may!" He spoke with the rugged earnestness of his place and character deepened perhaps by a proud consciousness that he was faithful to his class under all their mistrust; but he fully remembered where he was, and did not even raise his voice. "No, ma'am, no. They're true to one another, faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, "do you people, in a general way, complain of?" Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights." "I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do't?" "I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will make an example of half a dozen Slackbridges. We'll indict the blackguards for felony, and get 'em shipped off to penal settlements." Stephen gravely shook his head. "Don't tell me we won't, man," said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, "because we will, I tell you!" "Sir," returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was t' tak a hundred Slackbridges aw as there is, and aw the number ten times towd an' was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an' sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the muddle just wheer 'tis. Mischeevous strangers!" said Stephen, with an anxious smile; "when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we can call to mind, o' th' mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not by _them_ the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis not wi' _them_ 't commences. I ha no favour for 'em I ha no reason to favour 'em but 'tis hopeless and useless to dream o' takin them fro their trade, 'stead o' takin their trade fro them! Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit." Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind. "Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the genelman what will better	They're true to one another, faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else,<\|quote\|>"if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further."</\|quote\|>"Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, "do you people, in a general way, complain of?" Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights." "I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do't?" "I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will make	Hard Times
"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"	Edmund	its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace,	bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most	can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with	a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan,	parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is." "My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished. "Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she	to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends." And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop!" He turned back. "I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond" "If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again. "No, no, it is not. I want to consult you." Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is." "My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished. "Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?" "If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it, when it is not wanted?" "She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom." "No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross beyond all comparison better than the necklace." "For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's attentions to you have been not more than you were justly entitled to I am the last	suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your possession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many words." Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with. It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in this necklace she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend. Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before. CHAPTER XXVII On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome. "Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle a chain for William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends." And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop!" He turned back. "I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond" "If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again. "No, no, it is not. I want to consult you." Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is." "My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished. "Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?" "If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it, when it is not wanted?" "She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom." "No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross beyond all comparison better than the necklace." "For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's attentions to you have been not more than you were justly entitled to I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been invariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the _air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_, is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose characters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity and natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting principally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects I have on earth." He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as she could. She was one of his two dearest that must support her. But the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before, and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would be oh, how different would it be how far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed many tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the influence of fervent prayers for his happiness. It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough	she now walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before. CHAPTER XXVII On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome. "Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle a chain for William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends." And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop!" He turned back. "I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond" "If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again. "No, no, it is not. I want to consult you." Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is." "My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback." Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,<\|quote\|>"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"</\|quote\|>It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished. "Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?" "If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it, when it is not wanted?" "She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as she	Mansfield Park
"Really,"	Elinor	all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so	be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of	young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk	of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait	change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment,	such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this." Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it." "But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living s being enough to allow them to marry." "The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before	might establish all your views of happiness." What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him. He _looked_ all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words, "Colonel Brandon!" "Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion." "Colonel Brandon give _me_ a living! Can it be possible?" "The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where." "No," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in _you;_ for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all. I feel it I would express it if I could but, as you well know, I am no orator." "You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon s discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps indeed I know he _has_, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation." Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak; at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, "Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this." Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it." "But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living s being enough to allow them to marry." "The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan t go if Lucy an t there." Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more. CHAPTER XLI. Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett s Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward _would_ give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood s part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry. It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife s indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sister s going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was always at Elinor s service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor	that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps indeed I know he _has_, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation." Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak; at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, "Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman." "Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this." Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater. "Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Elinor told him the number of the house. "I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very an exceedingly happy man." Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it. "When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?" "No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely." "Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."<\|quote\|>"Really,"</\|quote\|>said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." "Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already." "My dear ma am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!" The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. "Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after	Sense And Sensibility
--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.	No speaker	very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she	opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though	must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his	such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty’s horrid incubus?” “Ah, but the inducement and the _quid pro quo_,” Lord John brightly indicated, “are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus--which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his visitor patiently explained, “in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother’s wants. Those are her ‘terms,’ and I don’t mind saying that they’re most disagreeable to me--I quite hate ‘em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn’t touch ‘em with a long pole if	I dare say such a sum as nine or ten would serve.” “And where the mischief, if you please, at this highly inconvenient time, am I to pick up nine or ten thousand?” Lord John declined, with a smiling, a fairly irritating eye for his friend’s general resources, to consider that question seriously. “Surely you can have no difficulty whatever--!” “Why not?--when you can see for yourself that I’ve had this year to let poor dear old Hill Street! Do you call it the moment for me to have _liked_ to see myself all but cajoled into planking down even such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty’s horrid incubus?” “Ah, but the inducement and the _quid pro quo_,” Lord John brightly indicated, “are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus--which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his visitor patiently explained, “in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother’s wants. Those are her ‘terms,’ and I don’t mind saying that they’re most disagreeable to me--I quite hate ‘em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn’t touch ‘em with a long pole if my personal feeling--in respect to Lady Grace--wasn’t so immensely enlisted.” “I assure you I’d chuck ‘em out of window, my boy, if I didn’t believe you’d be really good to her,” Lord Theign returned with the properest spirit. It only encouraged his companion. “You _will_ just tell her then, now and here, how good you honestly believe I shall be?” This appeal required a moment--a longer look at him. “You truly hold that that friendly guarantee, backed by my parental weight, will do your job?” “That’s the conviction I entertain.” Lord Theign thought again. “Well, even if your conviction’s just,	the fact of my mother’s desire (intended, I assure you, to be most flattering) that Lady Grace shall enter our family with all honours, but her expressed readiness to facilitate the thing by an understanding over and above----” “Over and above Kitty’s release from her damnable payment?” --Lord Theign reached out to what his guest had left rather in the air. “Of course we take _everything_ into account--or I shouldn’t, my dear fellow, be discussing with you at all a business one or two of whose aspects so little appeal to me: especially as there’s nothing, you easily conceive, that a daughter of mine can come in for by entering even your family, or any other (as a family) that she wouldn’t be quite as sure of by just staying in her own. The Duchess’s idea, at any rate, if I’ve followed you, is that if Grace does accept you she settles on you twelve thousand; with the condition--” Lord John was already all there. “Definitely, yes, of your settling the equivalent on Lady Grace.” “And what do you call the equivalent of twelve thousand?” “Why, tacked on to a value so great and so charming as Lady Grace herself, I dare say such a sum as nine or ten would serve.” “And where the mischief, if you please, at this highly inconvenient time, am I to pick up nine or ten thousand?” Lord John declined, with a smiling, a fairly irritating eye for his friend’s general resources, to consider that question seriously. “Surely you can have no difficulty whatever--!” “Why not?--when you can see for yourself that I’ve had this year to let poor dear old Hill Street! Do you call it the moment for me to have _liked_ to see myself all but cajoled into planking down even such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty’s horrid incubus?” “Ah, but the inducement and the _quid pro quo_,” Lord John brightly indicated, “are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus--which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his visitor patiently explained, “in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother’s wants. Those are her ‘terms,’ and I don’t mind saying that they’re most disagreeable to me--I quite hate ‘em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn’t touch ‘em with a long pole if my personal feeling--in respect to Lady Grace--wasn’t so immensely enlisted.” “I assure you I’d chuck ‘em out of window, my boy, if I didn’t believe you’d be really good to her,” Lord Theign returned with the properest spirit. It only encouraged his companion. “You _will_ just tell her then, now and here, how good you honestly believe I shall be?” This appeal required a moment--a longer look at him. “You truly hold that that friendly guarantee, backed by my parental weight, will do your job?” “That’s the conviction I entertain.” Lord Theign thought again. “Well, even if your conviction’s just, that still doesn’t tell me into which of my very empty pockets it will be of the least use for me to fumble.” “Oh,” Lord John laughed, “when a man has such a tremendous assortment of breeches--!” He pulled up, however, as, in his motion, his eye caught the great vista of the open rooms. “If it’s a question of pockets--and what’s _in_ ‘em--here precisely is my man!” This personage had come back from his tour of observation and was now, on the threshold of the hall, exhibited to Lord Theign as well. Lord John’s welcome was warm. “I’ve had awfully to fail you, Mr. Bender, but I was on the point of joining you. Let me, however, still better, introduce you to our host.” VII Mr. Bender indeed, formidably advancing, scarce had use for this assistance. “Happy to meet you--especially in your beautiful home, Lord Theign.” To which he added while the master of Dedborough stood good-humouredly passive to his approach: “I’ve been round, by your kind permission and the light of nature, and haven’t required support; though if I had there’s a gentleman there who seemed prepared to allow me any amount.” Mr. Bender, out of his abundance,	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 interlopers even but slightly accredited. He seemed thus not at all to strain to “understand” in this particular connection--it would be his familiarly amusing friend Lord John, clearly, who must do most of the work for him. “‘Our own’ in the sense of yours and mine?” “Of yours and mine and Lady Imber’s, yes--and a good bit, last not least, in that of my watching and waiting mother’s.” This struck no prompt spark of apprehension from his listener, so that Lord John went on: “The last thing she did this morning was to remind me, with her fine old frankness, that she would like to learn without more delay where, on the whole question, she _is_, don’t you know? What she put to me” --the younger man felt his ground a little, but proceeded further-- “what she put to me, with her rather grand way of looking _all_ questions straight in the face, you see, was: Do we or don’t we, decidedly, take up practically her very handsome offer--‘very handsome’ being, I mean, what _she_ calls it; though it strikes even me too, you know, as rather decent.” Lord Theign at this point resigned himself to know. “Kitty has of course rubbed into me how decent she herself finds it. She hurls herself again on me--successfully!--for everything, and it suits her down to the ground. She pays her beastly debt--that is, I mean to say,” and he took himself up, though it was scarce more than perfunctory, “discharges her obligations--by her sister’s fair hand; not to mention a few other trifles for which I naturally provide.” Lord John, a little unexpectedly to himself on the defensive, was yet but briefly at a loss. “Of course we take into account, don’t we? not only the fact of my mother’s desire (intended, I assure you, to be most flattering) that Lady Grace shall enter our family with all honours, but her expressed readiness to facilitate the thing by an understanding over and above----” “Over and above Kitty’s release from her damnable payment?” --Lord Theign reached out to what his guest had left rather in the air. “Of course we take _everything_ into account--or I shouldn’t, my dear fellow, be discussing with you at all a business one or two of whose aspects so little appeal to me: especially as there’s nothing, you easily conceive, that a daughter of mine can come in for by entering even your family, or any other (as a family) that she wouldn’t be quite as sure of by just staying in her own. The Duchess’s idea, at any rate, if I’ve followed you, is that if Grace does accept you she settles on you twelve thousand; with the condition--” Lord John was already all there. “Definitely, yes, of your settling the equivalent on Lady Grace.” “And what do you call the equivalent of twelve thousand?” “Why, tacked on to a value so great and so charming as Lady Grace herself, I dare say such a sum as nine or ten would serve.” “And where the mischief, if you please, at this highly inconvenient time, am I to pick up nine or ten thousand?” Lord John declined, with a smiling, a fairly irritating eye for his friend’s general resources, to consider that question seriously. “Surely you can have no difficulty whatever--!” “Why not?--when you can see for yourself that I’ve had this year to let poor dear old Hill Street! Do you call it the moment for me to have _liked_ to see myself all but cajoled into planking down even such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty’s horrid incubus?” “Ah, but the inducement and the _quid pro quo_,” Lord John brightly indicated, “are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus--which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his visitor patiently explained, “in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother’s wants. Those are her ‘terms,’ and I don’t mind saying that they’re most disagreeable to me--I quite hate ‘em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn’t touch ‘em with a long pole if my personal feeling--in respect to Lady Grace--wasn’t so immensely enlisted.” “I assure you I’d chuck ‘em out of window, my boy, if I didn’t believe you’d be really good to her,” Lord Theign returned with the properest spirit. It only encouraged his companion. “You _will_ just tell her then, now and here, how good you honestly believe I shall be?” This appeal required a moment--a longer look at him. “You truly hold that that friendly guarantee, backed by my parental weight, will do your job?” “That’s the conviction I entertain.” Lord Theign thought again. “Well, even if your conviction’s just, that still doesn’t tell me into which of my very empty pockets it will be of the least use for me to fumble.” “Oh,” Lord John laughed, “when a man has such a tremendous assortment of breeches--!” He pulled up, however, as, in his motion, his eye caught the great vista of the open rooms. “If it’s a question of pockets--and what’s _in_ ‘em--here precisely is my man!” This personage had come back from his tour of observation and was now, on the threshold of the hall, exhibited to Lord Theign as well. Lord John’s welcome was warm. “I’ve had awfully to fail you, Mr. Bender, but I was on the point of joining you. Let me, however, still better, introduce you to our host.” VII Mr. Bender indeed, formidably advancing, scarce had use for this assistance. “Happy to meet you--especially in your beautiful home, Lord Theign.” To which he added while the master of Dedborough stood good-humouredly passive to his approach: “I’ve been round, by your kind permission and the light of nature, and haven’t required support; though if I had there’s a gentleman there who seemed prepared to allow me any amount.” Mr. Bender, out of his abundance, evoked as by a suggestive hand this contributory figure. “A young, spare, nervous gentleman with eye-glasses--I guess he’s an author. A friend of yours too?” he asked of Lord John. The answer was prompt and emphatic. “No, the gentleman is no friend at all of mine, Mr. Bender.” “A friend of my daughter’s,” Lord Theign easily explained. “I hope they’re looking after him.” “Oh, they took care he had tea and bread and butter to any extent; and were so good as to move something,” Mr. Bender conscientiously added, “so that he could get up on a chair and see straight into the Moretto.” This was a touch, however, that appeared to affect Lord John unfavourably. “Up on a chair? I say!” Mr. Bender took another view. “Why, I got right up myself--a little more and I’d almost have begun to paw it! He got me quite interested” --the proprietor of the picture would perhaps care to know-- “in that Moretto.” And it was on these lines that Mr. Bender continued to advance. “I take it that your biggest value, however, Lord Theign, is your splendid Sir Joshua. Our friend there has a great deal to say about that too--but it didn’t lead to our moving any more furniture.” On which he paused as to enjoy, with a show of his fine teeth, his host’s reassurance. “It _has_ yet, my impression of that picture, sir, led to something else. Are you prepared, Lord Theign, to entertain a proposition?” Lord Theign met Mr. Bender’s eyes while this inquirer left these few portentous words to speak for themselves. “To the effect that I part to you with ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’? No, Mr. Bender, such a proposition would leave me intensely cold.” Lord John had meanwhile had a more headlong cry. “My dear Bender, I _envy_ you!” “I guess you don’t envy me,” his friend serenely replied, “as much as I envy Lord Theign.” And then while Mr. Bender and the latter continued to face each other searchingly and firmly: “What I allude to is an overture of a strong and simple stamp--such as perhaps would shed a softer light on the difficulties raised by association and attachment. I’ve had some experience of first shocks, and I’d be glad to meet you as man to man.” Mr. Bender was, quite clearly, all genial and all sincere; he intended no irony and	though it was scarce more than perfunctory, “discharges her obligations--by her sister’s fair hand; not to mention a few other trifles for which I naturally provide.” Lord John, a little unexpectedly to himself on the defensive, was yet but briefly at a loss. “Of course we take into account, don’t we? not only the fact of my mother’s desire (intended, I assure you, to be most flattering) that Lady Grace shall enter our family with all honours, but her expressed readiness to facilitate the thing by an understanding over and above----” “Over and above Kitty’s release from her damnable payment?” --Lord Theign reached out to what his guest had left rather in the air. “Of course we take _everything_ into account--or I shouldn’t, my dear fellow, be discussing with you at all a business one or two of whose aspects so little appeal to me: especially as there’s nothing, you easily conceive, that a daughter of mine can come in for by entering even your family, or any other (as a family) that she wouldn’t be quite as sure of by just staying in her own. The Duchess’s idea, at any rate, if I’ve followed you, is that if Grace does accept you she settles on you twelve thousand; with the condition--” Lord John was already all there. “Definitely, yes, of your settling the equivalent on Lady Grace.” “And what do you call the equivalent of twelve thousand?” “Why, tacked on to a value so great and so charming as Lady Grace herself, I dare say such a sum as nine or ten would serve.” “And where the mischief, if you please, at this highly inconvenient time, am I to pick up nine or ten thousand?” Lord John declined, with a smiling, a fairly irritating eye for his friend’s general resources, to consider that question seriously. “Surely you can have no difficulty whatever--!” “Why not?--when you can see for yourself that I’ve had this year to let poor dear old Hill Street! Do you call it the moment for me to have _liked_ to see myself all but cajoled into planking down even such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty’s horrid incubus?” “Ah, but the inducement and the _quid pro quo_,” Lord John brightly indicated, “are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus--which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber _and_ marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed--to himself--a very kind and very high opinion.” “She has expressed a very high opinion of you?”<\|quote\|>--Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity. But the younger man held his ground.</\|quote\|>“She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that--though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things--she thinks me perfectly charming.” “A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then,” said Lord Theign, “what does she want more?” “She very possibly wants nothing--but I’m to that beastly degree, you see,” his visitor patiently explained, “in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother’s wants. Those are her ‘terms,’ and I don’t mind saying that they’re most disagreeable to me--I quite hate ‘em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn’t touch ‘em with a long pole if my personal feeling--in respect to Lady Grace--wasn’t so immensely enlisted.” “I assure you I’d chuck ‘em out of window, my boy, if I didn’t believe you’d be really good to her,” Lord Theign returned with the properest spirit. It only encouraged his companion. “You _will_ just tell her then, now and here, how good you honestly believe I shall be?” This appeal required a moment--a longer look at him. “You truly hold that that friendly guarantee, backed by my parental weight, will do your job?” “That’s the conviction I entertain.” Lord Theign thought again. “Well, even if your conviction’s just, that still doesn’t tell me into which of my very empty pockets it will be of the least use for me to fumble.” “Oh,” Lord John laughed, “when a man has such a tremendous assortment of breeches--!” He pulled up, however, as, in his motion, his eye caught the great vista of the open rooms. “If it’s a question of pockets--and what’s _in_ ‘em--here precisely is my man!” This personage had come back from his tour of observation and was now,	The Outcry
"Love's young dream,"	Milly	"Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then.	dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When	stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe	seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said	up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries	at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is	girl out." Tony and Milly sat at the back. From habit and exhaustion she put her head on his shoulder and her hand in his. When they reached their rooms, however, she said, "Go quietly. We don't want to wake Winnie." For an hour or so Tony lay in the warm little bedroom, reviewing over and over again the incidents of the last three months; then he too fell asleep. * * * * * He was awakened by Winnie. "Mother's still asleep," she said. Tony looked at his watch. "So I should think," he said. It was a quarter-past seven. "Go back to bed." "No, I'm dressed. Let's go out." She went to the window and pulled back the curtains, filling the room with glacial, morning light. "It's hardly raining at all," she said. "What do you want to do?" "I want to go on the pier." "It won't be open yet." "Well, I want to go down to the sea. Come on." Tony knew that he would not get to sleep again that morning. "All right. You go and wait while I dress." "I'll wait here. Mother snores so." Twenty minutes later they went downstairs into the hall where aproned waiters were piling up the furniture and brushing the carpets. A keen wind met them as they emerged from the swing door. The asphalt promenade was wet with spray and rain. Two or three female figures were scudding along, bowed to the wind, prayer-books clutched in their gloved hands. Four or five rugged old men were hobbling down to bathe, hissing like ostlers. "Oh, come on," said Winnie. They went down to the beach and stumbled painfully across the shingle to the margin of the sea. Winnie threw some stones. The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them. "Why don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy." "I see," said Brenda. "_From then onwards I had him watched by private agents and as a result of what they told me, I left my husband's house on April 5th._ "Yes, that all seems quite clear." [III] Lady St Cloud preserved an atavistic faith in the authority and preternatural good judgment of the Head of the Family; accordingly, her first act, on learning from Marjorie of Brenda's wayward behaviour, was to cable for Reggie's return from Tunisia where he was occupied in desecrating some tombs. His departure, like all his movements, was leisurely. He did not take the first available boat or the second, but eventually he arrived in London on the Monday after Tony's visit to Brighton. He held a family conclave in his library, consisting of his mother, Brenda, Marjorie, Allan and the solicitor; later he discussed the question fully with each of them severally; he took Beaver out to luncheon; he dined with Jock; he even called on Tony's Aunt Frances. Finally, on Thursday evening he arranged to meet Tony for dinner at Brown's. He was eight years older than Brenda; very occasionally a fugitive, indefinable likeness was detectable between him and Marjorie, but both in character and appearance he was as different from Brenda as it was possible to imagine. He was prematurely, unnaturally stout, and he carried his burden of flesh as though he were not yet used to it; as though it had been buckled on to him that morning for the first time and he were still experimenting for its better adjustment; there was an instability in his gait and in his eyes a furtive look as though he were at any moment liable to ambush and realized that he was unfairly handicapped for flight. This impression, however, was due solely to his physical appearance; it was the deep bed of fat in which his eyes lay that gave them this look of suspicion; the caution of his movements resulted from the exertion of keeping his balance and not from any embarrassment at his own clumsiness, for it had never occurred to him	don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?"<\|quote\|>"Love's young dream,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy." "I see," said Brenda. "_From then onwards I had him watched by private agents and as a result of what they told me, I left my husband's house on April 5th._ "Yes, that all seems quite clear." [III] Lady St Cloud preserved an atavistic faith in the authority and preternatural good judgment of the Head of the Family; accordingly, her first act, on learning from Marjorie of Brenda's wayward behaviour, was to cable for Reggie's return from Tunisia where he	A Handful Of Dust
"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"	Mr. Weston	never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together.	not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very	doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and	I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--" "but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way." "No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it." "I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon." "Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said	Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her. "Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend." "I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?" "Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--" "but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way." "No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it." "I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon." "Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_ really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know who I mean" (nodding to her husband) ". These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have	do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most of them affronted. I will attack them with more address." "Ladies and gentlemen--I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two things moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all." "Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy." 'Three things very dull indeed.' "That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?" (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's assent) "--Do not you all think I shall?" Emma could not resist. "Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be limited as to number--only three at once." Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her. "Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend." "I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?" "Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--" "but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way." "No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it." "I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon." "Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_ really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know who I mean" (nodding to her husband) ". These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say--not one of us." "Yes, yes, pray pass _me_," added her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness; "_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?" "With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm." Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. "Happy couple!" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of hearing:--" "How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!--for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give--it is	comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always with me. You are always with me." "Dating from three o'clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before." "Three o'clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you first in February." "Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But" (lowering her voice) "--nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people." "I say nothing of which I am ashamed," replied he, with lively impudence. "I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February." And then whispering--" "Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk." "Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?" Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr. Knightley's answer was the most distinct. "Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?" "Oh! no, no" "--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could--" "Upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps," (glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) "whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing." "It is a sort of thing," cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, "which _I_ should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party--_I_ never was in any circle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--" Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply, "Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed--quite unheard of--but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body knows what is due to _you_." "It will not do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most of them affronted. I will attack them with more address." "Ladies and gentlemen--I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two things moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all." "Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy." 'Three things very dull indeed.' "That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?" (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's assent) "--Do not you all think I shall?" Emma could not resist. "Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be limited as to number--only three at once." Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her. "Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend." "I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?" "Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--" "but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way." "No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it." "I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon." "Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_ really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know who I mean" (nodding to her husband) ". These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say--not one of us." "Yes, yes, pray pass _me_," added her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness; "_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?" "With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm." Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. "Happy couple!" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of hearing:--" "How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!--for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give--it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck--and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!" Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own confederates, spoke now. "Such things do occur, undoubtedly." "--She was stopped by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen. "You were speaking," said he, gravely. She recovered her voice. "I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise--but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever." He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone, "Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you?" (turning to Emma.) "Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I should like any body fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know," (with a smile at his father) ". Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate her." "And make her like myself." "By all means, if you can." "Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife." "She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else. I shall go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return, I shall come to you for my wife. Remember." Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described? Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished. He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.	of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two things moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all." "Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy." 'Three things very dull indeed.' "That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?" (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's assent) "--Do not you all think I shall?" Emma could not resist. "Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be limited as to number--only three at once." Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her. "Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means," (turning to Mr. Knightley,) "and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend." "I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?" "Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--" "but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way." "No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it." "I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?" "What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know." "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma),<\|quote\|>"I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"</\|quote\|>Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon." "Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_ really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know who I mean" (nodding to her husband) ". These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say--not one of us." "Yes, yes, pray pass _me_," added her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness; "_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?" "With	Emma
"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"	Anne Shirley	so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of	Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it	in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so	sake." "I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your	visible although unmaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in with some of Anne's freshly ironed school aprons. She hung them over a chair and sat down with a short sigh. She had had one of her headaches that afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt weak and "tuckered out," as she expressed it. Anne looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. "I do truly wish I could have had the headache in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it joyfully for your sake." "I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's apron pattern." "Oh--it's--it's too dark," cried Anne. "Too dark? Why, it's only twilight. And goodness knows you've gone over often enough after dark." "I'll go over early in the morning," said Anne eagerly. "I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla." "What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley? I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart too." "I'll have to go around by the road, then," said Anne, taking up	would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn't be half so interesting." One June evening, when the orchards were pink blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestarred with its tufts of blossom. In all essential respects the little gable chamber was unchanged. The walls were as white, the pincushion as hard, the chairs as stiffly and yellowly upright as ever. Yet the whole character of the room was altered. It was full of a new vital, pulsing personality that seemed to pervade it and to be quite independent of schoolgirl books and dresses and ribbons, and even of the cracked blue jug full of apple blossoms on the table. It was as if all the dreams, sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant had taken a visible although unmaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in with some of Anne's freshly ironed school aprons. She hung them over a chair and sat down with a short sigh. She had had one of her headaches that afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt weak and "tuckered out," as she expressed it. Anne looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. "I do truly wish I could have had the headache in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it joyfully for your sake." "I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's apron pattern." "Oh--it's--it's too dark," cried Anne. "Too dark? Why, it's only twilight. And goodness knows you've gone over often enough after dark." "I'll go over early in the morning," said Anne eagerly. "I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla." "What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley? I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart too." "I'll have to go around by the road, then," said Anne, taking up her hat reluctantly. "Go by the road and waste half an hour! I'd like to catch you!" "I can't go through the Haunted Wood, Marilla," cried Anne desperately. Marilla stared. "The Haunted Wood! Are you crazy? What under the canopy is the Haunted Wood?" "The spruce wood over the brook," said Anne in a whisper. "Fiddlesticks! There is no such thing as a haunted wood anywhere. Who has been telling you such stuff?" "Nobody," confessed Anne. "Diana and I just imagined the wood was haunted. All the places around here are so--so--_commonplace_. We just got this up for our own amusement. We began it in April. A haunted wood is so very romantic, Marilla. We chose the spruce grove because it's so gloomy. Oh, we have imagined the most harrowing things. There's a white lady walks along the brook just about this time of the night and wrings her hands and utters wailing cries. She appears when there is to be a death in the family. And the ghost of a little murdered child haunts the corner up by Idlewild; it creeps up behind you and lays its cold fingers on your hand--so. Oh, Marilla, it gives me a shudder	no Mayflowers," said Anne. "Diana says perhaps they have something better, but there couldn't be anything better than Mayflowers, could there, Marilla? And Diana says if they don't know what they are like they don't miss them. But I think that is the saddest thing of all. I think it would be _tragic_, Marilla, not to know what Mayflowers are like and _not_ to miss them. Do you know what I think Mayflowers are, Marilla? I think they must be the souls of the flowers that died last summer and this is their heaven. But we had a splendid time today, Marilla. We had our lunch down in a big mossy hollow by an old well--such a _romantic_ spot. Charlie Sloane dared Arty Gillis to jump over it, and Arty did because he wouldn't take a dare. Nobody would in school. It is very _fashionable_ to dare. Mr. Phillips gave all the Mayflowers he found to Prissy Andrews and I heard him to say" ?sweets to the sweet.' "He got that out of a book, I know; but it shows he has some imagination. I was offered some Mayflowers too, but I rejected them with scorn. I can't tell you the person's name because I have vowed never to let it cross my lips. We made wreaths of the Mayflowers and put them on our hats; and when the time came to go home we marched in procession down the road, two by two, with our bouquets and wreaths, singing ?My Home on the Hill.' Oh, it was so thrilling, Marilla. All Mr. Silas Sloane's folks rushed out to see us and everybody we met on the road stopped and stared after us. We made a real sensation." "Not much wonder! Such silly doings!" was Marilla's response. After the Mayflowers came the violets, and Violet Vale was empurpled with them. Anne walked through it on her way to school with reverent steps and worshiping eyes, as if she trod on holy ground. "Somehow," she told Diana, "when I'm going through here I don't really care whether Gil--whether anybody gets ahead of me in class or not. But when I'm up in school it's all different and I care as much as ever. There's such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that is why I'm such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn't be half so interesting." One June evening, when the orchards were pink blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestarred with its tufts of blossom. In all essential respects the little gable chamber was unchanged. The walls were as white, the pincushion as hard, the chairs as stiffly and yellowly upright as ever. Yet the whole character of the room was altered. It was full of a new vital, pulsing personality that seemed to pervade it and to be quite independent of schoolgirl books and dresses and ribbons, and even of the cracked blue jug full of apple blossoms on the table. It was as if all the dreams, sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant had taken a visible although unmaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in with some of Anne's freshly ironed school aprons. She hung them over a chair and sat down with a short sigh. She had had one of her headaches that afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt weak and "tuckered out," as she expressed it. Anne looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. "I do truly wish I could have had the headache in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it joyfully for your sake." "I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's apron pattern." "Oh--it's--it's too dark," cried Anne. "Too dark? Why, it's only twilight. And goodness knows you've gone over often enough after dark." "I'll go over early in the morning," said Anne eagerly. "I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla." "What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley? I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart too." "I'll have to go around by the road, then," said Anne, taking up her hat reluctantly. "Go by the road and waste half an hour! I'd like to catch you!" "I can't go through the Haunted Wood, Marilla," cried Anne desperately. Marilla stared. "The Haunted Wood! Are you crazy? What under the canopy is the Haunted Wood?" "The spruce wood over the brook," said Anne in a whisper. "Fiddlesticks! There is no such thing as a haunted wood anywhere. Who has been telling you such stuff?" "Nobody," confessed Anne. "Diana and I just imagined the wood was haunted. All the places around here are so--so--_commonplace_. We just got this up for our own amusement. We began it in April. A haunted wood is so very romantic, Marilla. We chose the spruce grove because it's so gloomy. Oh, we have imagined the most harrowing things. There's a white lady walks along the brook just about this time of the night and wrings her hands and utters wailing cries. She appears when there is to be a death in the family. And the ghost of a little murdered child haunts the corner up by Idlewild; it creeps up behind you and lays its cold fingers on your hand--so. Oh, Marilla, it gives me a shudder to think of it. And there's a headless man stalks up and down the path and skeletons glower at you between the boughs. Oh, Marilla, I wouldn't go through the Haunted Wood after dark now for anything. I'd be sure that white things would reach out from behind the trees and grab me." "Did ever anyone hear the like!" ejaculated Marilla, who had listened in dumb amazement. "Anne Shirley, do you mean to tell me you believe all that wicked nonsense of your own imagination?" "Not believe _exactly_," faltered Anne. "At least, I don't believe it in daylight. But after dark, Marilla, it's different. That is when ghosts walk." "There are no such things as ghosts, Anne." "Oh, but there are, Marilla," cried Anne eagerly. "I know people who have seen them. And they are respectable people. Charlie Sloane says that his grandmother saw his grandfather driving home the cows one night after he'd been buried for a year. You know Charlie Sloane's grandmother wouldn't tell a story for anything. She's a very religious woman. And Mrs. Thomas's father was pursued home one night by a lamb of fire with its head cut off hanging by a strip of skin. He said he knew it was the spirit of his brother and that it was a warning he would die within nine days. He didn't, but he died two years after, so you see it was really true. And Ruby Gillis says--" "Anne Shirley," interrupted Marilla firmly, "I never want to hear you talking in this fashion again. I've had my doubts about that imagination of yours right along, and if this is going to be the outcome of it, I won't countenance any such doings. You'll go right over to Barry's, and you'll go through that spruce grove, just for a lesson and a warning to you. And never let me hear a word out of your head about haunted woods again." Anne might plead and cry as she liked--and did, for her terror was very real. Her imagination had run away with her and she held the spruce grove in mortal dread after nightfall. But Marilla was inexorable. She marched the shrinking ghost-seer down to the spring and ordered her to proceed straightaway over the bridge and into the dusky retreats of wailing ladies and headless specters beyond. "Oh, Marilla, how can you be so cruel?" sobbed Anne.	met on the road stopped and stared after us. We made a real sensation." "Not much wonder! Such silly doings!" was Marilla's response. After the Mayflowers came the violets, and Violet Vale was empurpled with them. Anne walked through it on her way to school with reverent steps and worshiping eyes, as if she trod on holy ground. "Somehow," she told Diana, "when I'm going through here I don't really care whether Gil--whether anybody gets ahead of me in class or not. But when I'm up in school it's all different and I care as much as ever. There's such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that is why I'm such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn't be half so interesting." One June evening, when the orchards were pink blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestarred with its tufts of blossom. In all essential respects the little gable chamber was unchanged. The walls were as white, the pincushion as hard, the chairs as stiffly and yellowly upright as ever. Yet the whole character of the room was altered. It was full of a new vital, pulsing personality that seemed to pervade it and to be quite independent of schoolgirl books and dresses and ribbons, and even of the cracked blue jug full of apple blossoms on the table. It was as if all the dreams, sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant had taken a visible although unmaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in with some of Anne's freshly ironed school aprons. She hung them over a chair and sat down with a short sigh. She had had one of her headaches that afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt weak and "tuckered out," as she expressed it. Anne looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. "I do truly wish I could have had the headache in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it joyfully for your sake." "I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest," said Marilla. "You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn't exactly necessary to starch Matthew's handkerchiefs! And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn't seem to be your way evidently." Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne penitently.<\|quote\|>"I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed. So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn't know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It's the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it. At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen's birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I'm sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs. I wanted to be extra good today because it's an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?"</\|quote\|>"No, I can't think of anything special." "Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life. Of course it wouldn't seem so important to you. I've been here for a year and I've been so happy. Of course, I've had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?" "No, I can't say I'm sorry," said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, "no, not exactly sorry. If you've finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she'll lend me Diana's apron pattern." "Oh--it's--it's too dark," cried Anne. "Too dark? Why, it's only twilight. And goodness knows you've gone over often enough after dark." "I'll go over early in the morning," said Anne eagerly. "I'll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla." "What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley? I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart too." "I'll have to go around by the road, then," said Anne, taking up her hat reluctantly. "Go by the road and waste half an hour! I'd like to catch you!" "I can't go through the Haunted Wood, Marilla," cried Anne desperately. Marilla stared. "The Haunted Wood! Are you crazy? What under the canopy is the Haunted Wood?" "The spruce wood over the brook," said Anne in a whisper. "Fiddlesticks! There is no such thing as a haunted wood anywhere. Who has been telling you such stuff?" "Nobody," confessed Anne. "Diana and I just imagined the wood was haunted. All the places around here are so--so--_commonplace_. We just got this up for our own amusement. We began it in April. A haunted wood is so very romantic, Marilla. We chose the spruce grove because it's so gloomy. Oh, we have imagined the most harrowing things. There's a white lady walks along the brook just about this time of the night and wrings her hands and utters wailing cries. She appears when there is to be a death in the family. And the ghost	Anne Of Green Gables
"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."	Emma	hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the	must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics	equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their	all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she	do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And	of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. "Oh! dear, no," said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well," (smiling,) "I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves." Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call	not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!" "-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know," (recollecting herself,) "is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!" "-- "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's." "But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!" "That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried." "But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!" "Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. "Oh! dear, no," said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well," (smiling,) "I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves." Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them. "To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma; "to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else." Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them. Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail;	undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried." "But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!" "Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm." "Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?" "If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"<\|quote\|>"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."</\|quote\|>They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. "Oh! dear, no," said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts. Well," (smiling,) "I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we	Emma
Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.	No speaker	the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said	and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the	salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led	eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top	Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were	Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing. "And the water's boiling hot," added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were	a refuge for them, could they reach it, as the ordinary Maoris would not dare to follow them there. Higher up the valley, where the waters were dashing furiously down in many a cascade, Don began to realise that they were following the bed of a river, whose source was somewhere high up the mountain he kept on seeing from time to time, while, after several hours' climbing, often over the most arduous, rocky ground, he saw that they were once more entering upon a volcanic district. Pillars of steam rose here and there, and all at once he started aside as a gurgling noise arose from beyond a patch of vivid green which covered the edges of a mud-pool, so hot that it was painful to the hand. From time to time Ngati had stopped to listen, the shouts growing fainter each time, while, as they progressed, a heavy thunderous roar grew louder, died away, and grew louder again. Don looked inquiringly at Jem. "It's the big chimney of that mountain drawing, Mas' Don." "Nonsense!" "Nay, that's what it is; and what I say is this. It's all wery well getting away from them cannibals, but don't let's let old Ngati--" The chief looked sharply round. "Yes, I'm a-talking about you, old chap. I say, you're not to take us right up that mountain, and into a place where we shall tumble in." "_Tapu_! _tapu_!" said Ngati, nodding his head, and pointing toward the steaming cloud above the mountain. "Oh, you aggrawating savage!" cried Jem. Ngati took it as a compliment, and smiled. Then, pointing to a cluster of rocks where a jet of steam was being forced out violently, he led the way there, when they had to pass over a tiny stream of hot water, and a few yards farther on, they came to its source, a beautiful bright fount of the loveliest sapphire blue, with an edge that looked like a marble bath of a roseate tint, fringed every here and there with crystals of sulphur. "Let's have a bathe!" cried Jem eagerly. "Is there time?" He stepped forward, and was about to plunge in his hand, when Ngati seized his shoulders and dragged him back. "What yer doing that for?" cried Jem. The Maori stepped forward, and made as if to dip in one of his feet, but snatched it back as if in pain. Then, smiling, he twisted some strands of grass into a band, fastened the end to the palm basket, and gently lowered it, full of eggs, into the sapphire depths, a jet of steam and a series of bubbles rising to the surface as the basket sank. "Why, Jem," said Don laughing, "you wanted to bathe in the big copper." "How was I to know that this was a foreign out-door kitchen?" replied Jem laughing. "And the water's boiling hot," added Don. "You can see it bubbling just at this end." "Think o' that now!" said Jem. "I say, what a big fire there must be somewhere down b'low. Strikes me, Mas' Don, that when I makes my fortun' and buys an estate I sha'n't settle here." "No, Jem. `There's no place like home.'" "Well, home's where you settle, arn't it? But this won't do for me. It's dangerous to be safe." Meanwhile, Ngati was listening intently, but, save the hissing of steam, the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were in a trap. On his right was the wall-like side of the gully they ascended; on his left the sheer precipice down to the awful torrent; before them the sound of a mighty cataract; and behind the enemy, coming quickly and stealthily on. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. A DANGEROUS PHASE. Ngati took all in at a glance, and signing to his companions to follow, he again lay down, creeping on for a short distance, trailing his spear, till they were well behind a pile of rocks. Here he gave a sharp look round at the _cul de sac_ into which they had been driven, and without hesitation crept to their left to where the rocky wall descended to the raging torrent. To him the place seemed to have no danger, as he passed over the edge and disappeared, but to Don it was like seeking death. "We can never do it, Jem," he said. "Must, Mas' Don. Go on." Don looked at him wildly, and then in a fit of desperation he lowered himself over the edge, felt a pair of great hands grasp him by the loins, and, as he loosened his hold, he was dropped upon a rough ledge of rock, where he stood giddy and confused, with the torrent rushing furiously along beneath his feet, and in front, dimly-seen through a mist which rose from below, he caught a glimpse of a huge fall of water which came from high up, behind some projecting rocks, and disappeared below. The noise of falling water now increased, reverberating from the walls of rock; the mist came cool and wet against his face, and, hurried and startled, Don stood upon the wet, rocky shelf, holding on tightly, till Ngati laid his hand upon his shoulder, passed round him, and then, signing to him to follow, went on. Don's first thought was of Jem, and looking behind him, there was his companion close to where he stood. Jem nodded to him to go on, just as a faint shout arose from somewhere above; and this seemed to nerve him to proceed over the slippery stones to where Ngati was passing round a corner, holding tightly by the rock, which he seemed to embrace. The way was dangerous in the extreme--a narrow ledge of the most rugged kind with a perpendicular moss-covered wall on the right, and on the left, space, with far	the gurgling of boiling water, and the softened roar that seemed now distant, now close at hand, there was nothing to be heard, so he signed to them to sit down and rest. He set the example, and Don followed, to lie upon his back, restfully gazing up at the blue sky above, when Jem, who had been more particular about the choice of a place, slowly sat down, remained stationary for a few moments, and then sprang up, uttering a cry of pain. "Why, that stone's red hot!" he cried. This was not the truth, but it was quite hot enough to make it a painful seat, and he chose another. "Well, of all the rum places, Mas' Don!" He said no more on the subject, for just then Ngati rose, and carefully drew the bag of eggs from the boiling pool. "And I called him a pig!" said Jem, self-reproachfully. "No: no pig," said Ngati, who caught the word. "Well, I didn't say there was, obstinit," said Jem. "Here, give us an egg. Fruit and young wood's all werry well; but there's no spoons and no salt!" In spite of these drawbacks, and amid a series of remarks on the convenience of cooking cauldrons all over the place, Jem made a hearty meal of new laid eggs, which they had just finished when Ngati looked up and seized his spear. "What's the matter?" cried Don listening.<\|quote\|>Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear.</\|quote\|>"I can hear nothing," said Jem. Ngati pointed down the ravine again, his keen sense having detected the sound of voices inaudible to his companions. Then carefully gathering up the egg shells, so as to leave no traces, he took the bag with the rest of the eggs, and led the way onward at a rapid rate. The path grew more wild and rugged, and the roar increased as they ascended, till, after turning an angle in the winding gully, the sound came continuously with a deep-toned, thunderous bellow. "There, what did I tell you?" said Jem, as the top of the mountain was plainly in view, emitting steam, and about a mile distant. "That's the chimney roaring." "It's a great waterfall somewhere on ahead," replied Don; and a few yards farther on they came once more upon the edge of the river, which here ran foaming along at the bottom of what was a mere jagged crack stretching down from high up the mountain, and with precipitous walls, a couple of hundred feet down. Ngati seemed more satisfied after a while, and they sat down in a narrow valley they were ascending to finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent. "I should like to know where he's going to take us," said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so long as it is into safety," said Don. "For my part, I--Lie down, quick!" Jem obeyed, and bending low, Don seized the Maori's arm, pointing the while down the way they had come at a couple of naked savages, leaping from stone to stone, spear armed, and each wearing the white-tipped tail feathers of a bird in his hair. Ngati saw the danger instantly, fell flat on his breast, and signing to his companions to follow, began to crawl in and out among the rocks and bushes, making for every point likely to afford shelter, while, in an agony of apprehension as to whether they had been seen, Don and Jem followed painfully, till the chief halted to reconnoitre and make some plan of escape. It was quite time, for the Maoris had either seen them or some of the traces they had left behind; and, carefully examining every foot of the narrow valley shelf along which they had climbed, were coming rapidly on. Don's heart sank, for it seemed to him that they were in a trap. On his right was the wall-like side of the gully they ascended; on his left the sheer precipice down to the awful torrent; before them the sound of a mighty cataract; and behind the enemy, coming quickly and stealthily on. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. A DANGEROUS PHASE. Ngati took all in at a glance, and signing to his companions to follow, he again lay down, creeping on for a short distance, trailing his spear, till they were well behind a pile of rocks. Here he gave a sharp look round at the _cul de sac_ into which they had been driven, and without hesitation crept to their left to where the rocky wall descended to the raging torrent. To him the place seemed to have no danger, as he passed over the edge and disappeared, but to Don it was like seeking death. "We can never do it, Jem," he said. "Must, Mas' Don. Go on." Don looked at him wildly, and then in a fit of desperation he lowered himself over the edge, felt a pair of great hands grasp him by the loins, and, as he loosened his hold,	Don Lavington
thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.	No speaker	ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man	on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us,"	he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a	go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to	Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came	then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did	you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion. "Some one knocked him down?" said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did you see him run, Mas' Don? I--oh dear, I can't help it. Do knock me down and sit on me, dear lad--I never--oh dear me!" Jem laughed till Don grew angry, and then the sturdy little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. "I couldn't help it, Mas' Don," he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much before. There, I'm better now. Shan't have any more laugh in me for a twelvemonth. Hiss! Whoss-s-s!" He made the two sounds again, and burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter at the success of his ruse; but this time Don caught him by the throat, and he stopped at once. "Hah!" he ejaculated, and wiped his eyes again. "Thankye, Mas' Don; that's just what you ought to ha' done before. There, it's all over now. What are you going to do?" "Watch them," said Don, laconically; and he crept to the mouth of the cave, and peered cautiously over the edge of the shelf, but all was quiet; and beyond a distant hail or two, heard after listening for some minutes, there was nothing to indicate that the search party had been there. "We must be well on the look-out, Jem. Your stupid trick may bring them back." "Stoopid? Well, I do like that, Mas' Don, after saving us both as I did." "I'd say let's go on at once, only we might meet some of them." "And old `My pakeha' wouldn't know where to find us. I say, Mas' Don, what are we going to do? Stop here with these people, and old Tomati, or go on at once and shift for ourselves?" "We cannot shift for ourselves in a country like this without some way of getting food." "Hush!" exclaimed Jem sharply. "What's the matter?" cried Don, making for the inner part of their hiding-place. "No, no; don't do that. It's all right, Mas' Don, only don't say anything more about food. I feel just now as if I could eat you. It's horrid how hungry I am." "You see then," said Don, "how helpless we are." "Yes; if it was only a biscuit I wouldn't mind just now, for there don't seem to be nothing to eat here, nor nothing to drink." They stood leaning against the rocky wall, not caring to risk sitting down on account of the foul	were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over,"<\|quote\|>thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike.</\|quote\|>All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be	Don Lavington
"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."	Mr. Hilbery	me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once.	have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s	me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s	message in little short sentences of extreme intensity. "Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks	have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark." Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity. "Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham." From	the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy. "His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place" "A legal family?" Mrs. Milvain inquired. "I fancy I ve seen the name somewhere." Mr. Hilbery shook his head. "I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life," he observed. "I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I ve a great respect for Denham," he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. "Cassandra s grown into a very charming young woman," he started afresh. "Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?" Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark." Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity. "Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph 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	"Why not come round later and discuss it with her with us both, eh?" "My dear Trevor, I have particular reasons for wishing to talk to you alone.... Where is Katharine?" "She s out with her young man, naturally. Cassandra plays the part of chaperone very usefully. A charming young woman that a great favorite of mine." He turned his stone between his fingers, and conceived different methods of leading Celia away from her obsession, which, he supposed, must have reference to the domestic affairs of Cyril as usual. "With Cassandra," Mrs. Milvain repeated significantly. "With Cassandra." "Yes, with Cassandra," Mr. Hilbery agreed urbanely, pleased at the diversion. "I think they said they were going to Hampton Court, and I rather believe they were taking a protege of mine, Ralph Denham, a very clever fellow, too, to amuse Cassandra. I thought the arrangement very suitable." He was prepared to dwell at some length upon this safe topic, and trusted that Katharine would come in before he had done with it. "Hampton Court always seems to me an ideal spot for engaged couples. There s the Maze, there s a nice place for having tea I forget what they call it and then, if the young man knows his business he contrives to take his lady upon the river. Full of possibilities full. Cake, Celia?" Mr. Hilbery continued. "I respect my dinner too much, but that can t possibly apply to you. You ve never observed that feast, so far as I can remember." Her brother s affability did not deceive Mrs. Milvain; it slightly saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind and infatuated as usual! "Who is this Mr. Denham?" she asked. "Ralph Denham?" said Mr. Hilbery, in relief that her mind had taken this turn. "A very interesting young man. I ve a great belief in him. He s an authority upon our mediaeval institutions, and if he weren t forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants writing" "He is not well off, then?" Mrs. Milvain interposed. "Hasn t a penny, I m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on him." "A mother and sisters? His father is dead?" "Yes, his father died some years ago," said Mr. Hilbery, who was prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs. Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy. "His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place" "A legal family?" Mrs. Milvain inquired. "I fancy I ve seen the name somewhere." Mr. Hilbery shook his head. "I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life," he observed. "I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I ve a great respect for Denham," he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. "Cassandra s grown into a very charming young woman," he started afresh. "Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?" Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark." Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity. "Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph 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?"	affability did not deceive Mrs. Milvain; it slightly saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind and infatuated as usual! "Who is this Mr. Denham?" she asked. "Ralph Denham?" said Mr. Hilbery, in relief that her mind had taken this turn. "A very interesting young man. I ve a great belief in him. He s an authority upon our mediaeval institutions, and if he weren t forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants writing" "He is not well off, then?" Mrs. Milvain interposed. "Hasn t a penny, I m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on him." "A mother and sisters? His father is dead?" "Yes, his father died some years ago," said Mr. Hilbery, who was prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs. Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy. "His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place" "A legal family?" Mrs. Milvain inquired. "I fancy I ve seen the name somewhere." Mr. Hilbery shook his head. "I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life," he observed. "I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I ve a great respect for Denham," he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. "Cassandra s grown into a very charming young woman," he started afresh. "Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?" Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark." Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity. "Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably.<\|quote\|>"It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge."</\|quote\|>Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph 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	Night And Day
CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.	No speaker	to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said	after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there	and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a	hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?"	stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?" "What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden	it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?" "What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Winnie-the-Pooh, and Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and	there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck." "It all comes," said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?" "What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Winnie-the-Pooh, and Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and other matters of interest, and Pooh wondering what a Grandfather was like, and if perhaps this was Two Grandfathers they were after now, and, if so, whether he would be allowed to take one home and keep it, and what Christopher Robin would say. And still the tracks went on in front of them.... Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!" cried Piglet. "Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, "because it makes different marks. It is either Two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or Two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them." So they went on, feeling just a little anxious now, in case the three animals in front of them were of Hostile Intent. And Piglet wished very much that his Grandfather T. W. were there, instead of elsewhere, and Pooh thought how nice it would be if they met Christopher Robin suddenly but quite accidentally, and only because he liked Christopher Robin so much. And then, all of a sudden, Winnie-the-Pooh stopped again, and licked the tip of his nose in a cooling manner, for he was feeling more hot and anxious than ever in his life before. _There were four animals in front of them!_ "Do you see, Piglet? Look at their tracks! Three, as it were, Woozles, and one, as it was, Wizzle. _Another Woozle has joined them!_" And so it seemed to be. There were the tracks; crossing over each other here, getting muddled up with each other there; but, quite plainly every now and then, the tracks of four sets of paws. "I _think_," said Piglet, when he had licked the tip of his nose too, and found that it brought very little comfort, "I _think_ that I have just remembered something. I have just remembered something that I forgot to do yesterday and shan't be able to do to-morrow. So I suppose I really ought to go back and do it now." "We'll do it this afternoon, and I'll come with you," said Pooh. "It isn't the sort	you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!"<\|quote\|>CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers.</\|quote\|>"I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer. "That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?" "What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would	Winnie The Pooh
"Yes, that's it,"	Mike Bannock	"Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah!	we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have	I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?"	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 in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the	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 in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war.	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 in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir,	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 in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes	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 in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, that's it,"</\|quote\|>said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't	Don Lavington
"Good-bye, Cecil."	Lucy	again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs,	the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three	course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in	bound up in the old vicious notions, and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I must actually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?" "Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it. She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty	say it again. You have taught me better." She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. "Of course, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' or any such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words suggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in you that I hadn't known of up till now." "All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize to me. It was my mistake." "It is a question between ideals, yours and mine--pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions, and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I must actually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?" "Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it. She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George had been thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, that George had gone away into--what was it?--the darkness. She put out the lamp. It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that	in the early stages, before you felt you wouldn't marry me, and so have given me a chance to improve. I have never known you till this evening. I have just used you as a peg for my silly notions of what a woman should be. But this evening you are a different person: new thoughts--even a new voice--" "What do you mean by a new voice?" she asked, seized with incontrollable anger. "I mean that a new person seems speaking through you," said he. Then she lost her balance. She cried: "If you think I am in love with someone else, you are very much mistaken." "Of course I don't think that. You are not that kind, Lucy." "Oh, yes, you do think it. It's your old idea, the idea that has kept Europe back--I mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. If a girl breaks off her engagement, everyone says:" 'Oh, she had some one else in her mind; she hopes to get someone else.' "It's disgusting, brutal! As if a girl can't break it off for the sake of freedom." He answered reverently: "I may have said that in the past. I shall never say it again. You have taught me better." She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. "Of course, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' or any such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words suggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in you that I hadn't known of up till now." "All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize to me. It was my mistake." "It is a question between ideals, yours and mine--pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions, and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I must actually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?" "Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it. She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George had been thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, that George had gone away into--what was it?--the darkness. She put out the lamp. It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that matters--the enemy within. They have sinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry and their piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deities will be avenged. Lucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did not love him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The night received her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before. Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants Windy Corner lay, not on the summit of the ridge, but a few hundred feet down the southern slope, at the springing of one of the great buttresses that supported the hill. On either side of it was a shallow ravine, filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine on the left ran the highway into the Weald. Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and caught sight of these noble dispositions of the earth, and,	she grew more and more vexed at his dignified behaviour. She had counted on his being petty. It would have made things easier for her. By a cruel irony she was drawing out all that was finest in his disposition. "You don't love me, evidently. I dare say you are right not to. But it would hurt a little less if I knew why." "Because" "--a phrase came to her, and she accepted it--" "you're the sort who can't know any one intimately." A horrified look came into his eyes. "I don't mean exactly that. But you will question me, though I beg you not to, and I must say something. It is that, more or less. When we were only acquaintances, you let me be myself, but now you're always protecting me." Her voice swelled. "I won't be protected. I will choose for myself what is ladylike and right. To shield me is an insult. Can't I be trusted to face the truth but I must get it second-hand through you? A woman's place! You despise my mother--I know you do--because she's conventional and bothers over puddings; but, oh goodness!" "--she rose to her feet--" "conventional, Cecil, you're that, for you may understand beautiful things, but you don't know how to use them; and you wrap yourself up in art and books and music, and would try to wrap up me. I won't be stifled, not by the most glorious music, for people are more glorious, and you hide them from me. That's why I break off my engagement. You were all right as long as you kept to things, but when you came to people--" She stopped. There was a pause. Then Cecil said with great emotion: "It is true." "True on the whole," she corrected, full of some vague shame. "True, every word. It is a revelation. It is--I." "Anyhow, those are my reasons for not being your wife." He repeated: "'The sort that can know no one intimately.' "It is true. I fell to pieces the very first day we were engaged. I behaved like a cad to Beebe and to your brother. You are even greater than I thought." She withdrew a step. "I'm not going to worry you. You are far too good to me. I shall never forget your insight; and, dear, I only blame you for this: you might have warned me in the early stages, before you felt you wouldn't marry me, and so have given me a chance to improve. I have never known you till this evening. I have just used you as a peg for my silly notions of what a woman should be. But this evening you are a different person: new thoughts--even a new voice--" "What do you mean by a new voice?" she asked, seized with incontrollable anger. "I mean that a new person seems speaking through you," said he. Then she lost her balance. She cried: "If you think I am in love with someone else, you are very much mistaken." "Of course I don't think that. You are not that kind, Lucy." "Oh, yes, you do think it. It's your old idea, the idea that has kept Europe back--I mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. If a girl breaks off her engagement, everyone says:" 'Oh, she had some one else in her mind; she hopes to get someone else.' "It's disgusting, brutal! As if a girl can't break it off for the sake of freedom." He answered reverently: "I may have said that in the past. I shall never say it again. You have taught me better." She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. "Of course, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' or any such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words suggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in you that I hadn't known of up till now." "All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize to me. It was my mistake." "It is a question between ideals, yours and mine--pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions, and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I must actually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?" "Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it. She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George had been thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, that George had gone away into--what was it?--the darkness. She put out the lamp. It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that matters--the enemy within. They have sinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry and their piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deities will be avenged. Lucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did not love him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The night received her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before. Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants Windy Corner lay, not on the summit of the ridge, but a few hundred feet down the southern slope, at the springing of one of the great buttresses that supported the hill. On either side of it was a shallow ravine, filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine on the left ran the highway into the Weald. Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and caught sight of these noble dispositions of the earth, and, poised in the middle of them, Windy Corner,--he laughed. The situation was so glorious, the house so commonplace, not to say impertinent. The late Mr. Honeychurch had affected the cube, because it gave him the most accommodation for his money, and the only addition made by his widow had been a small turret, shaped like a rhinoceros' horn, where she could sit in wet weather and watch the carts going up and down the road. So impertinent--and yet the house "did," for it was the home of people who loved their surroundings honestly. Other houses in the neighborhood had been built by expensive architects, over others their inmates had fidgeted sedulously, yet all these suggested the accidental, the temporary; while Windy Corner seemed as inevitable as an ugliness of Nature's own creation. One might laugh at the house, but one never shuddered. Mr. Beebe was bicycling over this Monday afternoon with a piece of gossip. He had heard from the Miss Alans. These admirable ladies, since they could not go to Cissie Villa, had changed their plans. They were going to Greece instead. "Since Florence did my poor sister so much good," wrote Miss Catharine, "we do not see why we should not try Athens this winter. Of course, Athens is a plunge, and the doctor has ordered her special digestive bread; but, after all, we can take that with us, and it is only getting first into a steamer and then into a train. But is there an English Church?" And the letter went on to say: "I do not expect we shall go any further than Athens, but if you knew of a really comfortable pension at Constantinople, we should be so grateful." Lucy would enjoy this letter, and the smile with which Mr. Beebe greeted Windy Corner was partly for her. She would see the fun of it, and some of its beauty, for she must see some beauty. Though she was hopeless about pictures, and though she dressed so unevenly--oh, that cerise frock yesterday at church!--she must see some beauty in life, or she could not play the piano as she did. He had a theory that musicians are incredibly complex, and know far less than other artists what they want and what they are; that they puzzle themselves as well as their friends; that their psychology is a modern development, and has not yet been	someone else, you are very much mistaken." "Of course I don't think that. You are not that kind, Lucy." "Oh, yes, you do think it. It's your old idea, the idea that has kept Europe back--I mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. If a girl breaks off her engagement, everyone says:" 'Oh, she had some one else in her mind; she hopes to get someone else.' "It's disgusting, brutal! As if a girl can't break it off for the sake of freedom." He answered reverently: "I may have said that in the past. I shall never say it again. You have taught me better." She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. "Of course, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' or any such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words suggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in you that I hadn't known of up till now." "All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize to me. It was my mistake." "It is a question between ideals, yours and mine--pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler. I was bound up in the old vicious notions, and all the time you were splendid and new." His voice broke. "I must actually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?" "Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it. Thank you very much for your gentleness." "Let me light your candle, shall I?" They went into the hall. "Thank you. Good-night again. God bless you, Lucy!"<\|quote\|>"Good-bye, Cecil."</\|quote\|>She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it. She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George had been thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, that George had gone away into--what was it?--the darkness. She put out the lamp. It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that matters--the enemy within. They have sinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry and their piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deities will be avenged. Lucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did not love him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The night received her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before. Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants Windy Corner lay, not on the summit of the ridge, but a few hundred feet down the southern slope, at the springing of one of the great buttresses that supported the hill. On either side of it was a shallow ravine, filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine on the left ran the highway into the Weald. Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and caught sight of these noble dispositions of the earth, and, poised in the middle of them, Windy Corner,--he laughed. The situation was so glorious, the house so commonplace, not to say impertinent. The late Mr. Honeychurch had affected the cube, because it gave him the most accommodation for his money, and the only addition made by his widow had been a small turret, shaped like a rhinoceros' horn, where she could sit in wet weather and watch the carts going up and down the road. So impertinent--and yet the house "did," for it was the home of people who loved their surroundings honestly. Other houses in the neighborhood had been built by expensive architects, over others their inmates had fidgeted sedulously, yet all these suggested the accidental, the temporary; while Windy Corner seemed as inevitable as an ugliness of Nature's own creation. One might laugh at the house, but one never shuddered. Mr. Beebe was bicycling over this Monday afternoon with a piece of gossip. He	A Room With A View
"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"	Bill Sikes	to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal	were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim	up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing	were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other," said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the	dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other," said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can	"And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!" Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other," said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can hear it," said Nancy. "Of course they can," replied Sikes. "It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door." "Poor fellow!" said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. "Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!" "Yes; that's all you women think of," answered Sikes. "Fine young chaps! Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter." With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him to step out again. "Wait a minute!" said the girl: "I wouldn't hurry by, if it was you that was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'd walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn't a shawl to cover me." "And what	such distress on your account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I've found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I've found him!" With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a butcher's boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was also looking on, whether he didn't think he had better run for the doctor. To which, the butcher's boy: who appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought not. "Oh, no, no, never mind," said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand; "I'm better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!" "Oh, ma'am," replied the young woman, "he ran away, near a month ago, from his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother's heart." "Young wretch!" said one woman. "Go home, do, you little brute," said the other. "I am not," replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. "I don't know her. I haven't any sister, or father and mother either. I'm an orphan; I live at Pentonville." "Only hear him, how he braves it out!" cried the young woman. "Why, it's Nancy!" exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first time; and started back, in irrepressible astonishment. "You see he knows me!" cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. "He can't help himself. Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!" "What the devil's this?" said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels; "young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young dog! Come home directly." "I don't belong to them. I don't know them. Help! help!" cried Oliver, struggling in the man's powerful grasp. "Help!" repeated the man. "Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal! What books are these? You've been a stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em here." With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head. "That's right!" cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. "That's the only way of bringing him to his senses!" "To be sure!" cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garret-window. "It'll do him good!" said the two women. "And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!" Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other," said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can hear it," said Nancy. "Of course they can," replied Sikes. "It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door." "Poor fellow!" said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. "Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!" "Yes; that's all you women think of," answered Sikes. "Fine young chaps! Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter." With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him to step out again. "Wait a minute!" said the girl: "I wouldn't hurry by, if it was you that was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'd walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn't a shawl to cover me." "And what good would that do?" inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. "Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the good it would do me. Come on, and don't stand preaching there." The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white. They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour: meeting very few people, and those appearing from their looks to hold much the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself. At length they turned into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothes shops; the dog running forward, as if conscious that there was no further occasion for his keeping on guard, stopped before the door of a shop that was closed and apparently untenanted; the house was in a ruinous condition, and on the door was nailed a board, intimating that it was to let: which looked as if it had hung there for many years. "All right," cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about. Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. They crossed to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few moments under a lamp. A noise, as if a sash window were gently raised, was heard; and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes then seized the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and all three were quickly inside the house. The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let them in, chained and barred the door. "Anybody here?" inquired Sikes. "No," replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before. "Is the old 'un here?" asked the robber. "Yes," replied the voice, "and precious down in the mouth he has been. Won't he be glad to see you? Oh, no!" The style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it, seemed familiar to Oliver's ears: but it was impossible to distinguish even the form of the speaker in the darkness. "Let's have a glim," said Sikes, "or we shall go breaking our necks, or treading on the	grasp, and struck him on the head. "That's right!" cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. "That's the only way of bringing him to his senses!" "To be sure!" cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garret-window. "It'll do him good!" said the two women. "And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!" Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other," said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.<\|quote\|>"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can hear it," said Nancy. "Of course they can," replied Sikes. "It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door." "Poor fellow!" said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. "Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!" "Yes; that's all you women think of," answered Sikes. "Fine young chaps! Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter." With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him to step out again. "Wait a minute!" said the girl: "I wouldn't hurry by, if it was you that was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'd walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn't a shawl to cover me." "And what good would that do?" inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. "Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the good it would do me. Come on, and don't stand preaching there." The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white. They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour: meeting very few people,	Oliver Twist
"Victor!"	Madame Lebrun	to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and	look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow	rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited	Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the	the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere," looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. "He	arm from the curtain which shielded her open door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a _bon gar on_, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward "the house." The lovers were just entering the grounds of the _pension_. They were leaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere," looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. "He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way	as little reflection as we might expect from one of those children down there playing in the sand. If your attentions to any married women here were ever offered with any intention of being convincing, you would not be the gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to associate with the wives and daughters of the people who trust you." Madame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and the gospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "Oh! well! That isn't it," slamming his hat down vehemently upon his head. "You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to a fellow." "Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments? _Ma foi!_" "It isn't pleasant to have a woman tell you" he went on, unheedingly, but breaking off suddenly: "Now if I were like Arobin you remember Alc e Arobin and that story of the consul's wife at Biloxi?" And he related the story of Alc e Arobin and the consul's wife; and another about the tenor of the French Opera, who received letters which should never have been written; and still other stories, grave and gay, till Mrs. Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men seriously was apparently forgotten. Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take the hour's rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her, Robert begged her pardon for the impatience he called it rudeness with which he had received her well-meant caution. "You made one mistake, Ad le," he said, with a light smile; "there is no earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You should have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice might then have carried some weight and given me subject for some reflection. _Au revoir_. But you look tired," he added, solicitously. "Would you like a cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy with a drop of Angostura." She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty S vres cup, with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer. She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a _bon gar on_, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward "the house." The lovers were just entering the grounds of the _pension_. They were leaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere," looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. "He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more general tone to the conversation. Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority felt. Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin's colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from "Zampa," and at the earnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant." "_Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_" shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first time that summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected; and his decrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot fortunately offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and hurled against the twins in that one impetuous outburst. Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one present had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the city. A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The mother played her accompaniments and at the same	black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called<\|quote\|>"Victor!"</\|quote\|>She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere," looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. "He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter!	The Awakening
"To Cologne."	A nurse	the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick	his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the	I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes	false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer	his bed with his plaster bandage. What do you want then?" she says, turning to me. I am in mortal terror at this new turn, for I haven't any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help. "Little or big?" This shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: "Well, only quite a little one----" At any rate, it produces the effect. I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided.	my pulse and smooths my forehead. "You haven't any fever, though." "No." I agree. "Have you been dreaming then?" she asks. "Perhaps----" I evade. The interrogation starts again. She looks at me with her clear eyes, and the more wonderful and sweet she is the less am I able to tell her what I want. I am lifted up into bed again. That will be all right. As soon as she goes I must try to climb down again. If she were an old woman, it might be easier to say what a man wants, but she is so very young, at the most twenty-five, it can't be done, I cannot possibly tell her. Then Albert comes to my rescue, he is not bashful, it makes no difference to him who is upset. He calls to the sister. She turns round. "Sister, he wants----" but no more does Albert know how to express it modestly and decently. Out there we say it in a single word, but here, to such a lady---- All at once he remembers his school days and finishes hastily: "He wants to leave the room, sister." "Ah!" says the sister, "but he shouldn't climb out of his bed with his plaster bandage. What do you want then?" she says, turning to me. I am in mortal terror at this new turn, for I haven't any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help. "Little or big?" This shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: "Well, only quite a little one----" At any rate, it produces the effect. I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it	cast a glance at the bed. It is covered with clean snow-white linen, that even has the marks of the iron still on it. And my shirt has gone six weeks without being washed and is terribly muddy. "Can't you get in by yourself?" asks the sister gently. "Why yes," I say in a sweat, "but take off the bed cover first." "What for?" I feel like a pig. Must I get in there?-- "It will get----" I hesitate. "A little bit dirty?" she suggests helpfully. "That doesn't matter, we will wash it again afterwards." "No, no, not that----" I say excitedly. I am not equal to such overwhelming refinement. "When you have been lying out there in the trenches, surely we can wash a sheet," she goes on. I look at her, she is young and crisp, spotless and neat, like everything here; a man cannot realize that it isn't for officers only, and feels himself strange and in some way even alarmed. All the same, the woman is a tormentor, she is going to force me to say it. "It is only----" I try again, surely she must know what I mean. "What is it then?" "Because of the lice," I bawl out at last. She laughs. "Well, they must have a good day for once, too." Now I don't care any more. I scramble into bed and pull up the covers. A hand gropes over the bed-cover. The sergeant-major. He goes off with the cigars. An hour later we notice that we are moving. At night I cannot sleep. Kropp is restless too. The train rides easily over the rails. I cannot realize it all yet; a bed, a train, home. "Albert!" I whisper. "Yes----" "Do you know where the latrine is?" "Over to the right of the door, I think." "I'm going to have a look." It is dark, I grope for the edge of the bed and cautiously try to slide down. But my foot finds no support, I begin to slip, the plaster leg is no help, and with a crash I lie on the floor. "Damn!" I say. "Have you bumped yourself?" asks Kropp. "You could hear that well enough for yourself," I growl, "my head----" A door opens in the rear of the car. The sister comes with a light and looks at me. "He has fallen out of bed----" She feels my pulse and smooths my forehead. "You haven't any fever, though." "No." I agree. "Have you been dreaming then?" she asks. "Perhaps----" I evade. The interrogation starts again. She looks at me with her clear eyes, and the more wonderful and sweet she is the less am I able to tell her what I want. I am lifted up into bed again. That will be all right. As soon as she goes I must try to climb down again. If she were an old woman, it might be easier to say what a man wants, but she is so very young, at the most twenty-five, it can't be done, I cannot possibly tell her. Then Albert comes to my rescue, he is not bashful, it makes no difference to him who is upset. He calls to the sister. She turns round. "Sister, he wants----" but no more does Albert know how to express it modestly and decently. Out there we say it in a single word, but here, to such a lady---- All at once he remembers his school days and finishes hastily: "He wants to leave the room, sister." "Ah!" says the sister, "but he shouldn't climb out of his bed with his plaster bandage. What do you want then?" she says, turning to me. I am in mortal terror at this new turn, for I haven't any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help. "Little or big?" This shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: "Well, only quite a little one----" At any rate, it produces the effect. I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!" I say, "just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again. "Shut the door," I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert. "Shut the door!" we yell. They withdraw. The little one who came first is the last to go. "Heathen," she chirps, but shuts the door all the same. We have won. * * At noon the hospital inspector arrives and abuses us. He threatens us with clink and all the rest of it. But a hospital inspector is just the same as a commissariat inspector, or any one else who wears a long dagger and shoulder straps, but is really a clerk, and is never considered even by a recruit as a real officer. So we let him talk. What can they do to us, anyway---- "Who threw the bottle?" he asks. Before I can think whether I should report myself, someone says: "I did." A man with a bristling beard sits up. Everyone is excited; why should he report himself? "You?" "Yes. I was annoyed because we were waked up unnecessarily and lost my senses so that I did not know what I was doing." He talks like a book. "What is your name?" "Reinforcement-Reservist Josef Hamacher." The inspector departs. We	laughs. "Well, they must have a good day for once, too." Now I don't care any more. I scramble into bed and pull up the covers. A hand gropes over the bed-cover. The sergeant-major. He goes off with the cigars. An hour later we notice that we are moving. At night I cannot sleep. Kropp is restless too. The train rides easily over the rails. I cannot realize it all yet; a bed, a train, home. "Albert!" I whisper. "Yes----" "Do you know where the latrine is?" "Over to the right of the door, I think." "I'm going to have a look." It is dark, I grope for the edge of the bed and cautiously try to slide down. But my foot finds no support, I begin to slip, the plaster leg is no help, and with a crash I lie on the floor. "Damn!" I say. "Have you bumped yourself?" asks Kropp. "You could hear that well enough for yourself," I growl, "my head----" A door opens in the rear of the car. The sister comes with a light and looks at me. "He has fallen out of bed----" She feels my pulse and smooths my forehead. "You haven't any fever, though." "No." I agree. "Have you been dreaming then?" she asks. "Perhaps----" I evade. The interrogation starts again. She looks at me with her clear eyes, and the more wonderful and sweet she is the less am I able to tell her what I want. I am lifted up into bed again. That will be all right. As soon as she goes I must try to climb down again. If she were an old woman, it might be easier to say what a man wants, but she is so very young, at the most twenty-five, it can't be done, I cannot possibly tell her. Then Albert comes to my rescue, he is not bashful, it makes no difference to him who is upset. He calls to the sister. She turns round. "Sister, he wants----" but no more does Albert know how to express it modestly and decently. Out there we say it in a single word, but here, to such a lady---- All at once he remembers his school days and finishes hastily: "He wants to leave the room, sister." "Ah!" says the sister, "but he shouldn't climb out of his bed with his plaster bandage. What do you want then?" she says, turning to me. I am in mortal terror at this new turn, for I haven't any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help. "Little or big?" This shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: "Well, only quite a little one----" At any rate, it produces the effect. I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask.<\|quote\|>"To Cologne."</\|quote\|>"Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door	All Quiet on the Western Front
"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."	Dorcas	a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so	mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was	"No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign	"Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the	things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by	and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say	asked: "Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?" "Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday" "What time was that?" "I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a long way. Perhaps four o'clock or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn't exactly mean to listen, but well, there it is. I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly." You have lied to me, and deceived me,' "she said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorp replied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did but she answered:" How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our name!' "Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went on:" Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' "Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly." "You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?" "Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?" "Well, what happened next?" "Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea nothing to eat to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful so white and upset." Dorcas,' "she says," I've had a great shock.' I'm sorry for that, m'm,' "I says." You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' "She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say that I do." "Look at the label." I read the label carefully: " One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' "No, I see nothing unusual." "Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!" "Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?" "No, I can't say that I have." I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking: "Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend." An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply. Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy. Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness. "I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?" Annie considered. "There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don't remember." "Think," urged Poirot. Annie racked her brains in vain. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it." "It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some cocoa in it. Did she have that every night?" "Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night whenever she fancied it." "What was it? Plain cocoa?" "Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it." "Who took it to her room?" "I did, sir." "Always?" "Yes, sir." "At what time?" "When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir." "Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?" "No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so cook used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then	and told me to bring her a cup of tea nothing to eat to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful so white and upset." Dorcas,' "she says," I've had a great shock.' I'm sorry for that, m'm,' "I says." You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' "She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"<\|quote\|>"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."</\|quote\|>"Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.	No speaker	course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I	arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for	suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits	have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and	The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal	turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now, for Helen s child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, "Oh, take care--!" for something moved behind the window of the hall, and the door opened. "The conclave s breaking at last. I ll go." It was Paul. Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black moustache. "My father has asked for you," he said with hostility. She took her work and followed him. "We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand." "Yes, I did." Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to take Dolly s boa and gloves out of a vase. Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?" Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, piccaninnies included." Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don t, Paul. You promised you d take care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave. Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don t you worry about me." "Good-bye, dad." Then it was Dolly s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all." From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret, and kissed her. And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea. "Good-bye." "Good-bye, Dolly." "So long, father." "Good-bye, my boy; always take	and she took off her pince-nez to watch it. "You!" cried Helen. "You did it all, sweetest, though you re too stupid to see. Living here was your plan--I wanted you; he wanted you; and everyone said it was impossible, but you knew. Just think of our lives without you, Meg--I and baby with Monica, revolting by theory, he handed about from Dolly to Evie. But you picked up the pieces, and made us a home. Can t it strike you--even for a moment--that your life has been heroic? Can t you remember the two months after Charles s arrest, when you began to act, and did all?" "You were both ill at the time," said Margaret. "I did the obvious things. I had two invalids to nurse. Here was a house, ready furnished and empty. It was obvious. I didn t know myself it would turn into a permanent home. No doubt I have done a little towards straightening the tangle, but things that I can t phrase have helped me." "I hope it will be permanent," said Helen, drifting away to other thoughts. "I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards End peculiarly our own." "All the same, London s creeping." She pointed over the meadow--over eight or nine meadows, but at the end of them was a red rust. "You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now," she continued. "I can see it from the Purbeck Downs. And London is only part of something else, I m afraid. Life s going to be melted down, all over the world." Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End, Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were all survivals, and the melting-pot was being prepared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. One s hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth beating time? "Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go strong for ever," she said. "This craze for motion has only set in during the last hundred years. It may be followed by a civilisation that won t be a movement, because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are against it now, but I can t help hoping, and very early in the morning in the garden I feel that our house is the future as well as the past." They turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now, for Helen s child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, "Oh, take care--!" for something moved behind the window of the hall, and the door opened. "The conclave s breaking at last. I ll go." It was Paul. Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black moustache. "My father has asked for you," he said with hostility. She took her work and followed him. "We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand." "Yes, I did." Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to take Dolly s boa and gloves out of a vase. Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?" Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, piccaninnies included." Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don t, Paul. You promised you d take care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave. Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don t you worry about me." "Good-bye, dad." Then it was Dolly s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all." From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret, and kissed her. And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea. "Good-bye." "Good-bye, Dolly." "So long, father." "Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself." "Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox." "Good-bye." Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her husband and laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But Dolly s remark had interested her. At last she said: "Could you tell me, Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?" Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is a very old story. When she was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some return, and, not being herself at the time, scribbled Howards End on a piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was clearly fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my Margaret would be to me in the future." Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its inmost recesses, and she shivered. "I didn t do wrong, did I?" he asked, bending down. "You didn t, darling. Nothing has been done wrong." From the garden came laughter. "Here they are at last!" exclaimed Henry, disengaging himself with a smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding Tom by one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There were shouts of infectious joy. "The field s cut!" Helen cried excitedly--" "the big meadow! We ve seen to the very end, and it ll be such a crop of hay as never!" WEYBRIDGE, 1908-1910.	meadows, but at the end of them was a red rust. "You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now," she continued. "I can see it from the Purbeck Downs. And London is only part of something else, I m afraid. Life s going to be melted down, all over the world." Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End, Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were all survivals, and the melting-pot was being prepared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. One s hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth beating time? "Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go strong for ever," she said. "This craze for motion has only set in during the last hundred years. It may be followed by a civilisation that won t be a movement, because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are against it now, but I can t help hoping, and very early in the morning in the garden I feel that our house is the future as well as the past." They turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now, for Helen s child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, "Oh, take care--!" for something moved behind the window of the hall, and the door opened. "The conclave s breaking at last. I ll go." It was Paul. Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black moustache. "My father has asked for you," he said with hostility. She took her work and followed him. "We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand." "Yes, I did." Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to take Dolly s boa and gloves out of a vase. Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last. "It s not really the country, and it s not the town." "Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?"<\|quote\|>Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady.</\|quote\|>"Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?" Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, piccaninnies included." Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don t, Paul. You promised you d take care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave. Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don t you worry about me." "Good-bye, dad." Then it was Dolly s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all." From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret, and kissed her. And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea. "Good-bye." "Good-bye, Dolly." "So long, father." "Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself." "Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox." "Good-bye." Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her husband and laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But Dolly s remark had interested her. At last she said: "Could you tell me, Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?" Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is a very old story. When she was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some return, and, not being herself at the time, scribbled Howards End on a piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was	Howards End
said the one who had spoken first.	No speaker	to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business,	say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it	"I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon	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 go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a	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 go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to	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 go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they	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 go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!" said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on, "What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should _I_ know?" said Alice, surprised at her own courage. "It's no business of _mine_." The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed "Off with her head! Off--" "Nonsense!" said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent. The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said "Consider, my dear: she is only a child!" The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave "Turn them over!" The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot. "Get up!" said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the royal children, and everybody else. "Leave off that!" screamed the Queen. "You make me giddy." And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on, "What _have_ you been doing here?" "May it please your Majesty," said Two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke, "we were trying--" "_I_ see!" said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. "Off with their heads!" and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection. "You shan't be beheaded!" said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two,	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 go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?"<\|quote\|>said the one who had spoken first.</\|quote\|>"That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!" said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on, "What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should _I_ know?" said Alice, surprised at her own courage. "It's no business of _mine_." The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed "Off	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."	Margaret	dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other	condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was	it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat	house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go	he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If	is the end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were, A beautiful ending." "She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact." "Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it." "I don t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then	own was as good. You may have guessed something, even though your sister said nothing. The slightest hint would help us." "Who is we ?" "I thought it best to ring up Charles." "That was unnecessary," said Margaret, growing warmer. "This news will give Charles disproportionate pain." "He has at once gone to call on your brother." "That too was unnecessary." "Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You don t think that I and my son are other than gentlemen? It is in Helen s interests that we are acting. It is still not too late to save her name." Then Margaret hit out for the first time. "Are we to make her seducer marry her?" she asked. "If possible, yes." "But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married already? One has heard of such cases." "In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, and be thrashed within an inch of his life." So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. What had tempted her to imperil both of their lives. Henry s obtuseness had saved her as well as himself. Exhausted with anger, she sat down again, blinking at him as he told her as much as he thought fit. At last she said: "May I ask you my question now?" "Certainly, my dear." "To-morrow Helen goes to Munich--" "Well, possibly she is right." "Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; to-night, with your permission, she would like to sleep at Howards End." It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have recalled the words as soon as they were uttered. She had not led up to them with sufficient care. She longed to warn him that they were far more important than he supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they were a business proposition. "Why Howards End?" he said at last. "Would she not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?" Margaret hastened to give him reasons. "It is an odd request, but you know what Helen is and what women in her state are." He frowned, and moved irritably. "She has the idea that one night in your house would give her pleasure and do her good. I think she s right. Being one of those imaginative girls, the presence of all our books and furniture soothes her. This is a fact. It is the end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were, A beautiful ending." "She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact." "Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it." "I don t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don t repent. Only say to yourself, What Helen has done, I ve done." "The two cases are different," Henry stammered. His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. "In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society, Helen can t. You have had only pleasure, she may die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?" Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry s retort came. "I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her husband. My rule through life has been never to pay the least attention to threats, and I can only repeat what I said before: I do not give you and your sister leave to sleep at Howards End." Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, wiping first one and then the other on his handkerchief. For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out into what was now the evening. CHAPTER XXXIX Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the latter was staying. Their interview was short and absurd. They had nothing in common but the English language, and tried by its help to express what neither of them understood. Charles saw in Helen the family foe. He had singled her out as the most dangerous of the Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked forward to telling his wife how right he had been. His mind was made up at once; the girl must be got out of the way before she disgraced them farther. If occasion offered she might be married to a villain, or, possibly, to a fool. But this was a concession to morality, it formed no part of his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles s dislike, and the past spread itself out very clearly before him; hatred is a	in fact." "Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it." "I don t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself."<\|quote\|>"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking."</\|quote\|>They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she	Howards End
"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"	Charlotte	very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we	to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I	few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty,"	all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in	for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room "you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer "then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and	park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room "you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer "then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. "My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?" "I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you." Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely	some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer s eye was now caught by the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them. "Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look, mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the room. When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around. "My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing. He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. He then made his bow, and departed with the rest. Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield. "Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone. "The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or with us." "They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor, "by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere." CHAPTER XX. As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room "you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer "then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. "My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?" "I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you." Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do, and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful! My love," applying to her husband, "don t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?" "Certainly," he replied, with a sneer "I came into Devonshire with no other view." "There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he	and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield. "Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone. "The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or with us." "They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor, "by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere." CHAPTER XX. As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room "you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.<\|quote\|>"Oh, don t be so sly before us,"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer "then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose." When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together. "My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last." "You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony." "Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. "My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?" "I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred." "Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you." Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was	Sense And Sensibility
"Some one--has come here to meet you?"	Newland Archer	back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She	the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of	of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval	House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must	The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the	her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. He saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took another plunge. "And the person?" "-- "The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..." "And you came out here to think the chance over?" "I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's too stifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back to Portsmouth." They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "You're not changed." He felt like answering: "I was, till I saw you again;" but instead he stood up abruptly and glanced about him at the untidy sweltering park. "This is horrible. Why shouldn't we go out a little on the bay? There's a breeze,	on to New York the following evening. It had always been understood that he would return to town early in the week, and when he got back from his expedition to Portsmouth a letter from the office, which fate had conspicuously placed on a corner of the hall table, sufficed to justify his sudden change of plan. He was even ashamed of the ease with which the whole thing had been done: it reminded him, for an uncomfortable moment, of Lawrence Lefferts's masterly contrivances for securing his freedom. But this did not long trouble him, for he was not in an analytic mood. After breakfast he smoked a cigarette and glanced over the Commercial Advertiser. While he was thus engaged two or three men he knew came in, and the usual greetings were exchanged: it was the same world after all, though he had such a queer sense of having slipped through the meshes of time and space. He looked at his watch, and finding that it was half-past nine got up and went into the writing-room. There he wrote a few lines, and ordered a messenger to take a cab to the Parker House and wait for the answer. He then sat down behind another newspaper and tried to calculate how long it would take a cab to get to the Parker House. "The lady was out, sir," he suddenly heard a waiter's voice at his elbow; and he stammered: "Out?--" as if it were a word in a strange language. He got up and went into the hall. It must be a mistake: she could not be out at that hour. He flushed with anger at his own stupidity: why had he not sent the note as soon as he arrived? He found his hat and stick and went forth into the street. The city had suddenly become as strange and vast and empty as if he were a traveller from distant lands. For a moment he stood on the door-step hesitating; then he decided to go to the Parker House. What if the messenger had been misinformed, and she were still there? He started to walk across the Common; and on the first bench, under a tree, he saw her sitting. She had a grey silk sunshade over her head--how could he ever have imagined her with a pink one? As he approached he was struck by her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. He saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took another plunge. "And the person?" "-- "The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..." "And you came out here to think the chance over?" "I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's too stifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back to Portsmouth." They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "You're not changed." He felt like answering: "I was, till I saw you again;" but instead he stood up abruptly and glanced about him at the untidy sweltering park. "This is horrible. Why shouldn't we go out a little on the bay? There's a breeze, and it will be cooler. We might take the steamboat down to Point Arley." She glanced up at him hesitatingly and he went on: "On a Monday morning there won't be anybody on the boat. My train doesn't leave till evening: I'm going back to New York. Why shouldn't we?" he insisted, looking down at her; and suddenly he broke out: "Haven't we done all we could?" "Oh" "--she murmured again. She stood up and reopened her sunshade, glancing about her as if to take counsel of the scene, and assure herself of the impossibility of remaining in it. Then her eyes returned to his face. "You mustn't say things like that to me," she said. "I'll say anything you like; or nothing. I won't open my mouth unless you tell me to. What harm can it do to anybody? All I want is to listen to you," he stammered. She drew out a little gold-faced watch on an enamelled chain. "Oh, don't calculate," he broke out; "give me the day! I want to get you away from that man. At what time was he coming?" Her colour rose again. "At eleven." "Then you must come at once." "You needn't be afraid--if I don't come." "Nor you either--if you do. I swear I only want to hear about you, to know what you've been doing. It's a hundred years since we've met--it may be another hundred before we meet again." She still wavered, her anxious eyes on his face. "Why didn't you come down to the beach to fetch me, the day I was at Granny's?" she asked. "Because you didn't look round--because you didn't know I was there. I swore I wouldn't unless you looked round." He laughed as the childishness of the confession struck him. "But I didn't look round on purpose." "On purpose?" "I knew you were there; when you drove in I recognised the ponies. So I went down to the beach." "To get away from me as far as you could?" She repeated in a low voice: "To get away from you as far as I could." He laughed out again, this time in boyish satisfaction. "Well, you see it's no use. I may as well tell you," he added, "that the business I came here for was just to find you. But, look here, we must start or we shall miss our boat." "Our	by her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. He saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me." Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her.<\|quote\|>"Some one--has come here to meet you?"</\|quote\|>"Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took	The Age Of Innocence
"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"	Ralph Denham	hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that	not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her	her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her.	question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own	they known where to send her. Katharine s common sense, which had been in abeyance for the past week or two, still failed her, and she could only ask, "But where s your luggage?" in the vague belief that to take lodgings depended entirely upon a sufficiency of luggage. Cassandra s reply, "I ve lost my luggage," in no way helped her to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!" she observed, in a general	she would plunge into Katharine s heart, appeared to Ralph more probable than another, and he pushed first into the dining-room to avert the blow. Then he exclaimed "Cassandra!" with such heartiness at the sight of Cassandra Otway standing by the dining-room table that she put her finger to her lips and begged him to be quiet. "Nobody must know I m here," she explained in a sepulchral whisper. "I missed my train. I have been wandering about London all day. I can bear it no longer. Katharine, what am I to do?" Katharine pushed forward a chair; Ralph hastily found wine and poured it out for her. If not actually fainting, she was very near it. "William s upstairs," said Ralph, as soon as she appeared to be recovered. "I ll go and ask him to come down to you." His own happiness had given him a confidence that every one else was bound to be happy too. But Cassandra had her uncle s commands and anger too vividly in her mind to dare any such defiance. She became agitated and said that she must leave the house at once. She was not in a condition to go, had they known where to send her. Katharine s common sense, which had been in abeyance for the past week or two, still failed her, and she could only ask, "But where s your luggage?" in the vague belief that to take lodgings depended entirely upon a sufficiency of luggage. Cassandra s reply, "I ve lost my luggage," in no way helped her to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!" she observed, in a general way. "William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing precisely it was. "I find Cassandra," she repeated. "She missed her train," Katharine interposed, seeing that Cassandra was unable to speak. "Life," began Mrs. Hilbery, drawing inspiration from the portraits on the wall apparently, "consists in missing trains and in finding" But she pulled herself up and remarked that the kettle must have boiled completely over everything. To Katharine s agitated mind it appeared that this kettle was an enormous kettle, capable of deluging the house in its incessant showers of steam, the enraged representative of all those household duties which she had neglected. She ran hastily up to the drawing-room, and the rest followed her, for Mrs. Hilbery put her arm round Cassandra and drew her upstairs. They found Rodney observing the kettle with uneasiness but with such absence of mind that Katharine s catastrophe was in a fair way to be fulfilled. In putting the matter straight no greetings were exchanged, but Rodney and Cassandra chose seats as far apart as	from her hand in shame and despair when he saw her actually contemplating the idiotic symbol of his most confused and emotional moments. He was convinced that it could mean nothing to another, although somehow to him it conveyed not only Katharine herself but all those states of mind which had clustered round her since he first saw her pouring out tea on a Sunday afternoon. It represented by its circumference of smudges surrounding a central blot all that encircling glow which for him surrounded, inexplicably, so many of the objects of life, softening their sharp outline, so that he could see certain streets, books, and situations wearing a halo almost perceptible to the physical eye. Did she smile? Did she put the paper down wearily, condemning it not only for its inadequacy but for its falsity? Was she going to protest once more that he only loved the vision of her? But it did not occur to her that this diagram had anything to do with her. She said simply, and in the same tone of reflection: "Yes, the world looks something like that to me too." He received her assurance with profound joy. Quietly and steadily there rose up behind the whole aspect of life that soft edge of fire which gave its red tint to the atmosphere and crowded the scene with shadows so deep and dark that one could fancy pushing farther into their density and still farther, exploring indefinitely. Whether there was any correspondence between the two prospects now opening before them they shared the same sense of the impending future, vast, mysterious, infinitely stored with undeveloped shapes which each would unwrap for the other to behold; but for the present the prospect of the future was enough to fill them with silent adoration. At any rate, their further attempts to communicate articulately were interrupted by a knock on the door, and the entrance of a maid who, with a due sense of mystery, announced that a lady wished to see Miss Hilbery, but refused to allow her name to be given. When Katharine rose, with a profound sigh, to resume her duties, Ralph went with her, and neither of them formulated any guess, on their way downstairs, as to who this anonymous lady might prove to be. Perhaps the fantastic notion that she was a little black hunchback provided with a steel knife, which she would plunge into Katharine s heart, appeared to Ralph more probable than another, and he pushed first into the dining-room to avert the blow. Then he exclaimed "Cassandra!" with such heartiness at the sight of Cassandra Otway standing by the dining-room table that she put her finger to her lips and begged him to be quiet. "Nobody must know I m here," she explained in a sepulchral whisper. "I missed my train. I have been wandering about London all day. I can bear it no longer. Katharine, what am I to do?" Katharine pushed forward a chair; Ralph hastily found wine and poured it out for her. If not actually fainting, she was very near it. "William s upstairs," said Ralph, as soon as she appeared to be recovered. "I ll go and ask him to come down to you." His own happiness had given him a confidence that every one else was bound to be happy too. But Cassandra had her uncle s commands and anger too vividly in her mind to dare any such defiance. She became agitated and said that she must leave the house at once. She was not in a condition to go, had they known where to send her. Katharine s common sense, which had been in abeyance for the past week or two, still failed her, and she could only ask, "But where s your luggage?" in the vague belief that to take lodgings depended entirely upon a sufficiency of luggage. Cassandra s reply, "I ve lost my luggage," in no way helped her to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!" she observed, in a general way. "William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing precisely it was. "I find Cassandra," she repeated. "She missed her train," Katharine interposed, seeing that Cassandra was unable to speak. "Life," began Mrs. Hilbery, drawing inspiration from the portraits on the wall apparently, "consists in missing trains and in finding" But she pulled herself up and remarked that the kettle must have boiled completely over everything. To Katharine s agitated mind it appeared that this kettle was an enormous kettle, capable of deluging the house in its incessant showers of steam, the enraged representative of all those household duties which she had neglected. She ran hastily up to the drawing-room, and the rest followed her, for Mrs. Hilbery put her arm round Cassandra and drew her upstairs. They found Rodney observing the kettle with uneasiness but with such absence of mind that Katharine s catastrophe was in a fair way to be fulfilled. In putting the matter straight no greetings were exchanged, but Rodney and Cassandra chose seats as far apart as possible, and sat down with an air of people making a very temporary lodgment. Either Mrs. Hilbery was impervious to their discomfort, or chose to ignore it, or thought it high time that the subject was changed, for she did nothing but talk about Shakespeare s tomb. "So much earth and so much water and that sublime spirit brooding over it all," she mused, and went on to sing her strange, half-earthly song of dawns and sunsets, of great poets, and the unchanged spirit of noble loving which they had taught, so that nothing changes, and one age is linked with another, and no one dies, and we all meet in spirit, until she appeared oblivious of any one in the room. But suddenly her remarks seemed to contract the enormously wide circle in which they were soaring and to alight, airily and temporarily, upon matters of more immediate moment. "Katharine and Ralph," she said, as if to try the sound. "William and Cassandra." "I feel myself in an entirely false position," said William desperately, thrusting himself into this breach in her reflections. "I ve no right to be sitting here. Mr. Hilbery told me yesterday to leave the house. I d no intention of coming back again. I shall now" "I feel the same too," Cassandra interrupted. "After what Uncle Trevor said to me last night" "I have put you into a most odious position," Rodney went on, rising from his seat, in which movement he was imitated simultaneously by Cassandra. "Until I have your father s consent I have no right to speak to you let alone in this house, where my conduct" he looked at Katharine, stammered, and fell silent "where my conduct has been reprehensible and inexcusable in the extreme," he forced himself to continue. "I have explained everything to your mother. She is so generous as to try and make me believe that I have done no harm you have convinced her that my behavior, selfish and weak as it was selfish and weak" he repeated, like a speaker who has lost his notes. Two emotions seemed to be struggling in Katharine; one the desire to laugh at the ridiculous spectacle of William making her a formal speech across the tea-table, the other a desire to weep at the sight of something childlike and honest in him which touched her inexpressibly. To every one s	one else was bound to be happy too. But Cassandra had her uncle s commands and anger too vividly in her mind to dare any such defiance. She became agitated and said that she must leave the house at once. She was not in a condition to go, had they known where to send her. Katharine s common sense, which had been in abeyance for the past week or two, still failed her, and she could only ask, "But where s your luggage?" in the vague belief that to take lodgings depended entirely upon a sufficiency of luggage. Cassandra s reply, "I ve lost my luggage," in no way helped her to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded:<\|quote\|>"Why don t you tell us you re glad?"</\|quote\|>Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!" she observed, in a general way. "William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing	Night And Day
he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:	No speaker	me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to,	"Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and	their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her	Church of England. The rector s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one s eye. Ah	that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--" "Henry, why do people who have enough money try to get more money?" Her idea of politics--" "I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars," Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of England. The rector s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one s eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadiness included all praise. He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his son s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a moustache. But there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too,	the church may have been a ship, high-prowed, steering with all its company towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth hard and sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning after a night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they chrysants; it s a pity I didn t take them all." Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face, breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would lay down the morsel untasted. He remembered his wife s even goodness during thirty years. Not anything in detail--not courtship or early raptures--but just the unvarying virtue, that seemed to him a woman s noblest quality. So many women are capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not so his wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and mother, she had been the same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence! The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--" "Henry, why do people who have enough money try to get more money?" Her idea of politics--" "I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars," Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of England. The rector s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one s eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadiness included all praise. He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his son s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a moustache. But there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, was like Charles s. High and straight, brown and polished, merging abruptly into temples and skull, it had the effect of a bastion that protected his head from the world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall. He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years. "The post s come, father," said Evie awkwardly. "Thanks. Put it down." "Has the breakfast been all right?" "Yes, thanks." The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She did not know what to do. "Charles says do you want the Times?" "No, I ll read it later." "Ring if you want anything, father, won t you?" "I ve all I want." Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the dining-room. "Father s eaten nothing," she announced, sitting down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn. Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said "Look here father, you must eat, you know;" and having paused for a reply that did not come, stole down again. "He s going to read his letters first, I think," he said evasively; "I dare say he will go on	was rolling the event luxuriously in his mouth. He tried to tell his mother down below all that he had felt when he saw the coffin approaching: how he could not leave his work, and yet did not like to go on with it; how he had almost slipped out of the tree, he was so upset; the rooks had cawed, and no wonder--it was as if rooks knew too. His mother claimed the prophetic power herself--she had seen a strange look about Mrs. Wilcox for some time. London had done the mischief, said others. She had been a kind lady; her grandmother had been kind, too--a plainer person, but very kind. Ah, the old sort was dying out! Mr. Wilcox, he was a kind gentleman. They advanced to the topic again and again, dully, but with exaltation. The funeral of a rich person was to them what the funeral of Alcestis or Ophelia is to the educated. It was Art; though remote from life, it enhanced life s values, and they witnessed it avidly. The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent of disapproval--they disliked Charles; it was not a moment to speak of such things, but they did not like Charles Wilcox--the grave-diggers finished their work and piled up the wreaths and crosses above it. The sun set over Hilton; the grey brows of the evening flushed a little, and were cleft with one scarlet frown. Chattering sadly to each other, the mourners passed through the lych-gate and traversed the chestnut avenues that led down to the village. The young wood-cutter stayed a little longer, poised above the silence and swaying rhythmically. At last the bough fell beneath his saw. With a grunt, he descended, his thoughts dwelling no longer on death, but on love, for he was mating. He stopped as he passed the new grave; a sheaf of tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye. "They didn t ought to have coloured flowers at buryings," he reflected. Trudging on a few steps, he stopped again, looked furtively at the dusk, turned back, wrenched a chrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it in his pocket. After him came silence absolute. The cottage that abutted on the churchyard was empty, and no other house stood near. Hour after hour the scene of the interment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds drifted over it from the west; or the church may have been a ship, high-prowed, steering with all its company towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth hard and sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning after a night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they chrysants; it s a pity I didn t take them all." Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face, breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would lay down the morsel untasted. He remembered his wife s even goodness during thirty years. Not anything in detail--not courtship or early raptures--but just the unvarying virtue, that seemed to him a woman s noblest quality. So many women are capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not so his wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and mother, she had been the same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence! The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--" "Henry, why do people who have enough money try to get more money?" Her idea of politics--" "I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars," Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of England. The rector s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one s eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadiness included all praise. He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his son s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a moustache. But there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, was like Charles s. High and straight, brown and polished, merging abruptly into temples and skull, it had the effect of a bastion that protected his head from the world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall. He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years. "The post s come, father," said Evie awkwardly. "Thanks. Put it down." "Has the breakfast been all right?" "Yes, thanks." The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She did not know what to do. "Charles says do you want the Times?" "No, I ll read it later." "Ring if you want anything, father, won t you?" "I ve all I want." Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the dining-room. "Father s eaten nothing," she announced, sitting down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn. Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said "Look here father, you must eat, you know;" and having paused for a reply that did not come, stole down again. "He s going to read his letters first, I think," he said evasively; "I dare say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards." Then he took up the Times, and for some time there was no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and of knife on plate. Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions terrified at the course of events, and a little bored. She was a rubbishy little creature, and she knew it. A telegram had dragged her from Naples to the death-bed of a woman whom she had scarcely known. A word from her husband had plunged her into mourning. She desired to mourn inwardly as well, but she wished that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, could have died before the marriage, for then less would have been expected of her. Crumbling her toast, and too nervous to ask for the butter, she remained almost motionless, thankful only for this, that her father-in-law was having his breakfast upstairs. At last Charles spoke. "They had no business to be pollarding those elms yesterday," he said to his sister. "No, indeed." "I must make a note of that," he continued. "I am surprised that the rector allowed it." "Perhaps it may not be the rector s affair." "Whose else could it be?" "The lord of the manor." "Impossible." "Butter, Dolly?" "Thank you, Evie dear. Charles--" "Yes, dear?" "I didn t know one could pollard elms. I thought one only pollarded willows." "Oh no, one can pollard elms." "Then why oughtn t the elms in the churchyard to be pollarded?" Charles frowned a little, and turned again to his sister. "Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley." "Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley." "It s no good his saying he is not responsible for those men. He is responsible." "Yes, rather." Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus, partly because they desired to keep Chalkeley up to the mark--a healthy desire in its way--partly because they avoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes did. It did not seem to them of supreme importance. Or it may be as Helen supposed: they realised its importance, but were afraid of it. Panic and emptiness, could one glance behind. They were not callous, and they left the breakfast-table with aching hearts. Their mother never had come in to breakfast. It was in the other rooms, and especially in the garden, that they felt her loss most. As Charles went out to the garage, he was	grave; a sheaf of tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye. "They didn t ought to have coloured flowers at buryings," he reflected. Trudging on a few steps, he stopped again, looked furtively at the dusk, turned back, wrenched a chrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it in his pocket. After him came silence absolute. The cottage that abutted on the churchyard was empty, and no other house stood near. Hour after hour the scene of the interment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds drifted over it from the west; or the church may have been a ship, high-prowed, steering with all its company towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth hard and sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning after a night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they chrysants; it s a pity I didn t take them all." Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face, breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would lay down the morsel untasted. He remembered his wife s even goodness during thirty years. Not anything in detail--not courtship or early raptures--but just the unvarying virtue, that seemed to him a woman s noblest quality. So many women are capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not so his wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and mother, she had been the same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence! The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--" "Henry, why do people who have enough money try to get more money?" Her idea of politics--" "I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars," Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of England. The rector s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn t you tell me you knew of it?"<\|quote\|>he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered:</\|quote\|>"I didn t want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one s eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadiness included all praise. He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his son s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a moustache. But there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, was like Charles s. High and straight, brown and polished, merging abruptly into temples and skull, it had the effect of a bastion that protected his head from the world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall. He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years. "The post s come, father," said Evie awkwardly. "Thanks. Put it down." "Has the breakfast been all right?" "Yes, thanks." The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She did not know what to do. "Charles says do you want the Times?" "No, I ll read it later." "Ring if you want anything, father, won t you?" "I ve all I want." Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the dining-room. "Father s eaten nothing," she announced, sitting down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn. Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said "Look here father, you must eat, you know;" and having paused for a reply that did not come, stole down again. "He s going to read his letters first, I think," he said evasively; "I dare say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards." Then he took up the Times, and for some time there was no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and of knife on plate. Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions terrified at the course of events, and a little bored. She was a rubbishy little creature, and she knew it. A telegram had dragged her from Naples to the death-bed of a woman whom she had scarcely known. A word from her husband had plunged her into mourning. She desired to mourn inwardly as well, but she wished that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, could have died before the marriage, for then less would	Howards End
"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"	Jem Wimble	to it. "No," he said;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"Time? There was no time	did not seem to take to it. "No," he said;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"Time? There was no time named." "Then how shall we	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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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	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. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," 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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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."	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. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," 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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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	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. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," 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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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,	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. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," 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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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 like a pall over the vessel, and Don's spirits rose as he felt how well they were concealed. Then they sank once more, for Jem placed his lips close to his ear and whispered,-- "It's too dark, my lad; we shall never be able to see the canoe if she comes." Just then Don pressed his arm, and they listened together to what sounded like a faint sawing noise, which stopped and was renewed several times, and was followed by a slight splash. The	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. "But it's too dark for us to be seen," 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;<\|quote\|>"he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"</\|quote\|>"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	Don Lavington
she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.	No speaker	wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet	"It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,"	lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were	He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with	mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious and toothsome bits the finest of fruits, _pat s_, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The _pat s_ and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better. IV	in the top of a water-oak, and the everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night. The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve of her _peignoir_ no longer served to dry them. She was holding the back of her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why she was crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed never before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband's kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and self-understood. An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious and toothsome bits the finest of fruits, _pat s_, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The _pat s_ and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better. IV It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or any one else's wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and ample atonement. If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort; he would more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair; since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and brushed. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when	forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys. Notwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining room where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that they were resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from satisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One of them began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs. Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had a high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar and went and sat near the open door to smoke it. Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to bed perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr. Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken. He assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room. He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the children. If it was not a mother's place to look after children, whose on earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage business. He could not be in two places at once; making a living for his family on the street, and staying at home to see that no harm befell them. He talked in a monotonous, insistent way. Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the pillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in half a minute he was fast asleep. Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her _peignoir_. Blowing out the candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of satin _mules_ at the foot of the bed and went out on the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock gently to and fro. It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint light gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no sound abroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak, and the everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night. The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve of her _peignoir_ no longer served to dry them. She was holding the back of her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why she was crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed never before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband's kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and self-understood. An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious and toothsome bits the finest of fruits, _pat s_, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The _pat s_ and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better. IV It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or any one else's wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and ample atonement. If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort; he would more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair; since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and brushed. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as ministering angels. Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment of every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her, he was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Ad le Ratignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that have served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the fair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her charms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold hair that comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that were like nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one could only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in looking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem to detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One would not have wanted her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful arms more slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it was a joy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her gold thimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed away on the little night-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib. Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took her sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She was sitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans. She had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawers. She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut out a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby's body so effectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, like an Eskimo's. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous drafts came down chimneys and insidious currents of deadly cold found their way through key-holes. Mrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at rest concerning the present material needs of her children, and she could not see the use of	whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. "It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!"<\|quote\|>she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.</\|quote\|>"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious and toothsome bits the finest of fruits, _pat s_, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The _pat s_ and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better. IV It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or any one else's wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and ample atonement. If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort; he would more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair; since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and brushed. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized their	The Awakening
"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"	Mr. Sherlock Holmes	child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much	belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at	me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each	hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious	an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here, and come up." We tied Toby to the hall table, and re-ascended the stairs. The room was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner. "Lend me your bull s-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry smell. "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If _you_ can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin." By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I made my way round	see dimly that there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as our voices disturbed their slumbers. Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown-and-white in colour, with a very clumsy waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the detective s name. Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe. "Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Atheney Jones has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here, and come up." We tied Toby to the hall table, and re-ascended the stairs. The room was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner. "Lend me your bull s-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry smell. "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If _you_ can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin." By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves. "That you, Watson?" he cried. "Yes." "This is the place. What is that black thing down there?" "A water-barrel." "Top on it?" "Yes." "No sign of a ladder?" "No." "Confound the fellow! It s a most break-neck place. I ought to be able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow." There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth. "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it." The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out of coloured grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other,	was indeed a labyrinth in which a man less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair of ever finding the clue. Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3 before I could make my impression. At last, however, there was the glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper window. "Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face. "If you kick up any more row I ll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon you." "If you ll let one out it s just what I have come for," said I. "Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in the bag, an I ll drop it on your ead if you don t hook it." "But I want a dog," I cried. "I won t be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear, for when I say three, down goes the wiper." "Mr. Sherlock Holmes" I began, but the words had a most magical effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses. "A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he. "Step in, sir. Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty, would you take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don t mind that, sir: it s only a slow-worm. It hain t got no fangs, so I gives it the run o the room, for it keeps the beetles down. You must not mind my bein just a little short wi you at first, for I m guyed at by the children, and there s many a one just comes down this lane to knock me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?" "He wanted a dog of yours." "Ah! that would be Toby." "Yes, Toby was the name." "Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here." He moved slowly forward with his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as our voices disturbed their slumbers. Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown-and-white in colour, with a very clumsy waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the detective s name. Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe. "Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Atheney Jones has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here, and come up." We tied Toby to the hall table, and re-ascended the stairs. The room was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner. "Lend me your bull s-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry smell. "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If _you_ can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin." By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves. "That you, Watson?" he cried. "Yes." "This is the place. What is that black thing down there?" "A water-barrel." "Top on it?" "Yes." "No sign of a ladder?" "No." "Confound the fellow! It s a most break-neck place. I ought to be able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow." There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth. "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it." The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out of coloured grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto. "They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don t prick yourself. I m delighted to have them, for the chances are that they are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?" "Certainly," I answered. "Your leg will stand it?" "Oh, yes." "Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog s nose, while the creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the _bouquet_ of a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened a stout cord to the mongrel s collar, and led him to the foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed. The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some distance in the cold grey light. The square, massive house, with its black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and forlorn, behind us. Our course led right across the grounds, in and out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected. The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the black tragedy which hung over it. On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly, underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder. Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over upon the other side. "There s the print of wooden-leg s hand," he remarked, as I mounted up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain	half spaniel and half lurcher, brown-and-white in colour, with a very clumsy waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the detective s name. Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe. "Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Atheney Jones has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here, and come up." We tied Toby to the hall table, and re-ascended the stairs. The room was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner. "Lend me your bull s-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment." We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?" "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."<\|quote\|>"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"</\|quote\|>"They appear to be much as other footmarks." "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?" "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry smell. "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If _you_ can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin." By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves. "That you, Watson?" he cried. "Yes." "This is the place. What is that black thing down there?" "A water-barrel." "Top on it?" "Yes." "No sign of a ladder?" "No." "Confound the fellow! It s a most break-neck place. I ought to be able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow." There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth. "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it." The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out of coloured grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto. "They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don t prick yourself. I m delighted to have them, for the chances are that they are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?" "Certainly,"	The Sign Of The Four
"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."	Mr. John Knightley	these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent	strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body	did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law,	him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say	at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid." Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight." Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any	infection, than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was no concealing it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, "Would not she give him her support?--would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she give him her influence in procuring it?" "So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid." Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight." Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house. "What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?" was Mr. Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them, revived him a little. His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous people, but in a	all." "My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will be." Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless he comes." "He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs. Weston, "and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us." CHAPTER XV Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and, with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them. Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles. He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend--her fair, lovely, amiable friend. "Did she know?--had she heard any thing about her, since their being at Randalls?--he felt much anxiety--he must confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably." And in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him. But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on Harriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection, than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was no concealing it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, "Would not she give him her support?--would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she give him her influence in procuring it?" "So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid." Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight." Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house. "What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?" was Mr. Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them, revived him a little. His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through all the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them. "You had better order the carriage directly, my love," said she; "I dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold." "Indeed!" replied he. "Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing does give you cold. Walk home!--you are prettily shod for walking home, I dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses." Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs. Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away; and they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room immediately after his brother's first report of the snow, came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep--some way along the Highbury road--the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep--in many places hardly enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend. To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who was immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at Randalls. He	himself between them. Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles. He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend--her fair, lovely, amiable friend. "Did she know?--had she heard any thing about her, since their being at Randalls?--he felt much anxiety--he must confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably." And in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him. But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on Harriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection, than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was no concealing it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, "Would not she give him her support?--would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she give him her influence in procuring it?" "So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid." Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:<\|quote\|>"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."</\|quote\|>Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. "I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight." Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might	Emma
continued Anne, presently,	No speaker	Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth	little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim	which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly	by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did."	and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did." "Not before he was married, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not married when I knew him first." "And--were you much acquainted?" "Intimately." "Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he appears now?" "I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were	Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--" She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did." "Not before he was married, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not married when I knew him first." "And--were you much acquainted?" "Intimately." "Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he appears now?" "I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last-- "I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried, in her natural tone of cordiality, "I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real character. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that	were at! I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment occurs. Till it does come, you know, we women never mean to have anybody. It is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused, till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead for my--present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr Elliot. I am sure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can know him better than Colonel Wallis?" "My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half a year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one." "Oh! if these are your only objections," cried Mrs Smith, archly, "Mr Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do not forget me when you are married, that's all. Let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy. Mr Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin." "No," said Anne, "I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--" She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did." "Not before he was married, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not married when I knew him first." "And--were you much acquainted?" "Intimately." "Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he appears now?" "I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last-- "I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried, in her natural tone of cordiality, "I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real character. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!" Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and in a calmer manner, she added, "My expressions startle you. You must allow for an injured, angry woman. But I will try to command myself. I will not abuse him. I will only tell you what I have found him. Facts shall speak. He was the intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him as good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before our marriage. I found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became excessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but Mr Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more agreeable than most others, and we were almost always together. We were principally in town, living in very good style. He was then the inferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he had chambers in the Temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance of a gentleman. He had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he was always welcome; he was like a brother. My poor Charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his last farthing with him; and I know that his purse was open to him; I know that he often assisted him." "This must have been about that very period of Mr Elliot's life," said Anne, "which has always excited my particular curiosity. It must have been about the same time that he became known to my father and sister. I never knew him myself; I only heard of him; but there was a something in his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and afterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could quite reconcile with present times. It seemed to announce a different sort of man." "I know it all, I know it all," cried Mrs	within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--" She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But,"<\|quote\|>continued Anne, presently,</\|quote\|>"though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did." "Not before he was married, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not married when I knew him first." "And--were you much acquainted?" "Intimately." "Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he appears now?" "I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last-- "I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried, in her natural tone of cordiality, "I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real character. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!" Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and in a calmer manner, she added, "My expressions startle you. You must allow for an injured, angry woman. But I will try to command myself. I will not abuse him. I will only tell you what I have found him. Facts shall speak. He was the intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him as good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before our marriage. I found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became excessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but Mr Elliot appeared	Persuasion
"You may well be surprised,"	Lucy Steele	hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be	in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had	had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been	delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in	sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present but the time _may_ come how soon it will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness	justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent." Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, "I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you;_ indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble _you_. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." "I am sorry I do _not_," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." "I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present but the time _may_ come how soon it will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "We have been engaged these four years." "Four years!" "Yes." Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle s care, you know, a considerable while." "Your uncle!" "Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" "I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as	encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments. Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every show of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless. "You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage "but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law s mother, Mrs. Ferrars?" Elinor _did_ think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars. "Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?" "No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward s mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity; "I know nothing of her." "I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent." Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, "I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you;_ indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble _you_. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." "I am sorry I do _not_," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." "I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present but the time _may_ come how soon it will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "We have been engaged these four years." "Four years!" "Yes." Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle s care, you know, a considerable while." "Your uncle!" "Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" "I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." "Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment s reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward s honour and love, and her companion s falsehood "Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars! I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars." "We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." "It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I should never have heard him even mention your name." "No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister s suspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning it." She was silent. Elinor s security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three years." She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its	of giving her real opinion of Edward s mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity; "I know nothing of her." "I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent." Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, "I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you;_ indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble _you_. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." "I am sorry I do _not_," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." "I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present but the time _may_ come how soon it will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.<\|quote\|>"You may well be surprised,"</\|quote\|>continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "We have been engaged these four years." "Four years!" "Yes." Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle s care, you know, a considerable while." "Your uncle!" "Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" "I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you	Sense And Sensibility
said Jem,	No speaker	is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right	tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make	and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched	get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I	made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount of the food found in the various huts was served round. "Better than nothing, Mas' Don," said Jem, attacking his portion with the same avidity as was displayed by his fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they	bit ago, you'd got your head in my lap, and you was smiling just as if you was enjoying your bit of rest." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. TOMATI ESCAPES. "Have they been rowing--I mean paddling--all night, Jem?" said Don, as he looked back and saw the long line of canoes following the one he was in. "S'pose so, my lad. Seems to me they can go to sleep and keep on, just as old Rumble's mare used to doze away in the carrier's cart, all but her legs, which used to keep on going. Them chaps, p'r'aps, goes to sleep all but their arms." A terrible gnawing sensation was troubling Don now, as he looked eagerly about to see that they were going swiftly along the coast line; for their captors had roused themselves with the coming of day, and sent the canoes forward at a rapid rate for about an hour, until they ran their long narrow vessels in upon the beach and landed, making their prisoners do the same, close by the mouth of a swift rocky stream, whose bright waters came tumbling down over a series of cascades. Here it seemed as if a halt was to be made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount of the food found in the various huts was served round. "Better than nothing, Mas' Don," said Jem, attacking his portion with the same avidity as was displayed by his fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you," said Tomati, shivering painfully. "Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow's ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order. "Down, Mas' Don! Lie still!" whispered Jem. "They're ordering 'em into the boat again. Think we could crawl into the bush from	the canoe in the broad moonlight, and Don watched the soft silver sea, the black velvet-looking shore, and the brilliant stars; and then, just as in his faintness, hunger, and misery, he had determined in his own mind that he would be obliged to sit there and suffer the long night through, and began wondering how long it would be before morning, he became aware of the fact that Nature is bounteously good to those who suffer, for he saw that Jem kept on nodding his head, as if in acquiescence with that which he had said; and then he seemed to subside slowly with his brow against the side. "He's asleep!" said Don to himself. "Poor Jem! He always could go to sleep directly." This turned Don's thoughts to the times when, after a hard morning's work, and a hasty dinner, he had seen Jem sit down in a corner with his back against a tub, and drop off apparently in an instant. "I wish I could go to sleep and forget all this," Don said to himself with a sigh-- "all this horror and weariness and misery." He shook his head: it was impossible; and he looked again at the dark shore that they were passing, at the shimmering sea, and then at the bronzed backs of the warriors as they paddled on in their drowsy, mechanical way. The movement looked more and more strange as he gazed. The men's bodies swayed very little, and their arms all along the line looked misty, and seemed to stretch right away into infinity, so far away was the last rower from the prow. The water flashed with the moonlight on one side, and gleamed pallidly on the other as the blades stirred it; and then they grew more misty and more misty, but kept on _plash_--_plash_--_plash_, and the paddles of the line of canoes behind echoed the sound, or seemed to, as they beat the water, and Jem whispered softly in his ear,-- "Don't move, Mas' Don, my lad, I'm not tired!" But he did move, for he started up from where his head had been lying on Jem's knees, and the poor fellow smiled at him in the broad morning sunshine. Sunshine, and not moonshine; and Don stared. "Why, Jem," he said, "have I been asleep?" "S'pose so, Mas' Don. I know I have, and when I woke a bit ago, you'd got your head in my lap, and you was smiling just as if you was enjoying your bit of rest." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. TOMATI ESCAPES. "Have they been rowing--I mean paddling--all night, Jem?" said Don, as he looked back and saw the long line of canoes following the one he was in. "S'pose so, my lad. Seems to me they can go to sleep and keep on, just as old Rumble's mare used to doze away in the carrier's cart, all but her legs, which used to keep on going. Them chaps, p'r'aps, goes to sleep all but their arms." A terrible gnawing sensation was troubling Don now, as he looked eagerly about to see that they were going swiftly along the coast line; for their captors had roused themselves with the coming of day, and sent the canoes forward at a rapid rate for about an hour, until they ran their long narrow vessels in upon the beach and landed, making their prisoners do the same, close by the mouth of a swift rocky stream, whose bright waters came tumbling down over a series of cascades. Here it seemed as if a halt was to be made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount of the food found in the various huts was served round. "Better than nothing, Mas' Don," said Jem, attacking his portion with the same avidity as was displayed by his fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you," said Tomati, shivering painfully. "Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman's icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow's ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order. "Down, Mas' Don! Lie still!" whispered Jem. "They're ordering 'em into the boat again. Think we could crawl into the bush from here?" "No, Jem; it would be impossible." "So it would, lad, so it would; but as he said, poor chap, we must take to the woods. Think any of these would come with us?" Don shook his head despairingly, as he longed to look in Tomati's face again, but he dared not stir. A few minutes later they were once more in the leading canoe, which was being urged rapidly over the smooth sea, and it was a long time before Don could frame the words he wished to say. For whenever he tried to speak there was a strange choking sensation in his throat, and he ended by asking the question mutely as he gazed wildly in his companion's face. "Tomati, Mas' Don?" said Jem sadly. Don nodded. "Ah, I thought that was what you meant, my lad. Didn't you understand him when he spoke?" "No--yes--I'm afraid I did," whispered back Don. "Yes, you did, my lad. He meant it, and he knew it. He has got away." Don gazed wildly in Jem's eyes, and then bent his head low down to hide the emotion he felt, for it was nothing to him then that the English chief was an escaped convict from Norfolk Island. He had been a true friend and defender to them both; and Don in his misery, pain, and starvation could only ask himself whether that was the way that he must escape--the only open road. It was quite an hour before he spoke again, and then hardly above his breath. "Jem," he said, "shall we ever see our dear old home again?" Jem looked at him wistfully, and tried to answer cheerily, but the paddles were flashing in the sun, and the canoe was bearing them farther and farther away to a life of slavery, perhaps to a death of such horror that he dared not even think of it, much less speak. CHAPTER FORTY THREE. A SEARCH IN THE DARK. Two days' more water journey within easy reach of the verdant shore, past inlet, gulf, bay, and island, round jagged points, about which the waves beat and foamed; and then, amidst shouting, singing, and endless barbaric triumphal clamour, the captured canoes with their loads of prisoners and spoil were run up to a black beach, where a crowd of warriors with their women and children and those of the little conquering army eagerly	lap, and you was smiling just as if you was enjoying your bit of rest." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. TOMATI ESCAPES. "Have they been rowing--I mean paddling--all night, Jem?" said Don, as he looked back and saw the long line of canoes following the one he was in. "S'pose so, my lad. Seems to me they can go to sleep and keep on, just as old Rumble's mare used to doze away in the carrier's cart, all but her legs, which used to keep on going. Them chaps, p'r'aps, goes to sleep all but their arms." A terrible gnawing sensation was troubling Don now, as he looked eagerly about to see that they were going swiftly along the coast line; for their captors had roused themselves with the coming of day, and sent the canoes forward at a rapid rate for about an hour, until they ran their long narrow vessels in upon the beach and landed, making their prisoners do the same, close by the mouth of a swift rocky stream, whose bright waters came tumbling down over a series of cascades. Here it seemed as if a halt was to be made for resting, and after satisfying their own thirst, leave was given to the unhappy prisoners to assuage theirs, and then a certain amount of the food found in the various huts was served round. "Better than nothing, Mas' Don," said Jem, attacking his portion with the same avidity as was displayed by his fellow-prisoners. "'Tarn't good, but it'll fill up." "Look, Jem!" whispered Don; "isn't that Tomati?" Jem ceased eating, and stared in the direction indicated by Don. "Why, 'tis," he whispered. "Don't take no notice, lad, or they'll stop us, but let's keep on edging along till we get to him. Will you go first, or follow me?" "I'll follow you," whispered Don; and Jem began at once by changing his position a little as he went on eating. Then a little more, Don following, till they had placed a group of the miserable, apathetic-looking women between them and the warriors. These women looked at them sadly, but made no effort to speak, only sat watching them as they crept on and on till they were close upon the recumbent figure which they had taken to be the tattooed Englishman. "Why, if this is so easy, Mas' Don,"<\|quote\|>said Jem,</\|quote\|>"why couldn't we get right among the trees and make for the woods?" "Hush! Some one may understand English, and then our chance would be gone. Go on." Another half-dozen yards placed them close beside the figure they had sought to reach, and as he lay beside him, Don touched the poor fellow on the breast. "Tomati!" he whispered, "is that you?" The man turned his head feebly round and stared vacantly--so changed that for a moment they were in doubt. But the doubt was soon solved, for the poor wounded fellow said with a smile,-- "Ay, my lad; I was--afraid--you were--done for." "No, no; not much hurt," said Don. "Are you badly wounded?" Tomati nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" "No," was the reply, feebly given. "It's all over with me at last; they will fight--and kill one another. I've tried--to stop it--no use." Jem exchanged glances with Don, for there was something terrible in the English chiefs aspect. "Where are they taking us?" said Don, after a pause. "Down to Werigna--their place. But look here, don't stop to be taken there. Go off into the woods and journey south farther than they go. Don't stay." "Will they kill us if we stay?" whispered Don. "Yes," said Tomati, with a curious look. "Run for it--both." "But we can't leave you." Tomati smiled, and was silent for a few minutes. "You will not--leave me," he whispered, as he smiled sadly. "I--shall escape." "I am glad," whispered Don. "But Ngati?--where is Ngati?" "Crawled away up the mountain. Badly wounded, but he got away." "Then he has escaped," whispered Don joyfully. "Yes. So must you," said Tomati, shivering painfully. "Good lads, both." "I don't like to leave you," said Don again. "Ah! That's right. Don, my lad, can you take hold--of my hand--and say--a prayer or two. I'm going--to escape." A thrill of horror ran through Don as	Don Lavington
She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.	No speaker	mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour	suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you	two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone	of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit	got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit for personal relationships. Well, let's go, let's go. Of course Mr. Fielding's letter doesn't count; he can think and write what he likes, only he shouldn't have been rude to you when you had so much to bear. That's what matters. . . . I don't want your arm, I'm a magnificent walker, so don't touch me, please." Mrs. McBryde wished her an affectionate good-bye a woman with whom she had nothing in common and whose intimacy oppressed her. They would have to meet now, year after year, until one of their husbands was superannuated. Truly Anglo-India had caught her	have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls. "I do this less every day, I shall soon be quite well," she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. "What I need is something to do. That is why I keep on with this ridiculous crying." "It's not ridiculous, we think you wonderful," said the policeman very sincerely. "It only bothers us that we can't help you more. Your stopping here at such a time is the greatest honour this house" He too was overcome with emotion. "By the way, a letter came here for you while you were ill," he continued. "I opened it, which is a strange confession to make. Will you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is from Fielding." "Why should he write to me?" "A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit for personal relationships. Well, let's go, let's go. Of course Mr. Fielding's letter doesn't count; he can think and write what he likes, only he shouldn't have been rude to you when you had so much to bear. That's what matters. . . . I don't want your arm, I'm a magnificent walker, so don't touch me, please." Mrs. McBryde wished her an affectionate good-bye a woman with whom she had nothing in common and whose intimacy oppressed her. They would have to meet now, year after year, until one of their husbands was superannuated. Truly Anglo-India had caught her with a vengeance, and perhaps it served her right for having tried to take up a line of her own. Humbled yet repelled, she gave thanks. "Oh, we must help one another, we must take the rough with the smooth," said Mrs. McBryde. Miss Derek was there too, still making jokes about her comic Maharajah and Rani. Required as a witness at the trial, she had refused to send back the Mudkul car; they would be frightfully sick. Both Mrs. McBryde and Miss Derek kissed her, and called her by her Christian name. Then Ronny drove her back. It was early in the morning, for the day, as the hot weather advanced, swelled like a monster at both ends, and left less and less room for the movements of mortals. As they neared his bungalow, he said: "Mother's looking forward to seeing you, but of course she's old, one mustn't forget that. Old people never take things as one expects, in my opinion." He seemed warning her against approaching disappointment, but she took no notice. Her friendship with Mrs. Moore was so deep and real that she felt sure it would last, whatever else happened. "What can I do to	the lives of others. . . . And Adela spent days in this atmosphere of grief and depression. Her friends kept up their spirits by demanding holocausts of natives, but she was too worried and weak to do that. When the cactus thorns had all been extracted, and her temperature fallen to normal, Ronny came to fetch her away. He was worn with indignation and suffering, and she wished she could comfort him; but intimacy seemed to caricature itself, and the more they spoke the more wretched and self-conscious they became. Practical talk was the least painful, and he and McBryde now told her one or two things which they had concealed from her during the crisis, by the doctor's orders. She learnt for the first time of the Mohurram troubles. There had nearly been a riot. The last day of the festival, the great procession left its official route, and tried to enter the civil station, and a telephone had been cut because it interrupted the advance of one of the larger paper towers. McBryde and his police had pulled the thing straight a fine piece of work. They passed on to another and very painful subject: the trial. She would have to appear in court, identify the prisoner, and submit to cross-examination by an Indian lawyer. "Can Mrs. Moore be with me?" was all she said. "Certainly, and I shall be there myself," Ronny replied. "The case won't come before me; they've objected to me on personal grounds. It will be at Chandrapore we thought at one time it would be transferred elsewhere." "Miss Quested realizes what all that means, though," said McBryde sadly. "The case will come before Das." Das was Ronny's assistant own brother to the Mrs. Bhattacharya whose carriage had played them false last month. He was courteous and intelligent, and with the evidence before him could only come to one conclusion; but that he should be judge over an English girl had convulsed the station with wrath, and some of the women had sent a telegram about it to Lady Mellanby, the wife of the Lieutenant-Governor. "I must come before someone." "That's that's the way to face it. You have the pluck, Miss Quested." He grew very bitter over the arrangements, and called them "the fruits of democracy." In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, and judgment would have followed. He apologized to her for the condition of the country, with the result that she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny wandered miserably about the room while she cried, treading upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so inevitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares bowls. "I do this less every day, I shall soon be quite well," she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. "What I need is something to do. That is why I keep on with this ridiculous crying." "It's not ridiculous, we think you wonderful," said the policeman very sincerely. "It only bothers us that we can't help you more. Your stopping here at such a time is the greatest honour this house" He too was overcome with emotion. "By the way, a letter came here for you while you were ill," he continued. "I opened it, which is a strange confession to make. Will you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is from Fielding." "Why should he write to me?" "A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit for personal relationships. Well, let's go, let's go. Of course Mr. Fielding's letter doesn't count; he can think and write what he likes, only he shouldn't have been rude to you when you had so much to bear. That's what matters. . . . I don't want your arm, I'm a magnificent walker, so don't touch me, please." Mrs. McBryde wished her an affectionate good-bye a woman with whom she had nothing in common and whose intimacy oppressed her. They would have to meet now, year after year, until one of their husbands was superannuated. Truly Anglo-India had caught her with a vengeance, and perhaps it served her right for having tried to take up a line of her own. Humbled yet repelled, she gave thanks. "Oh, we must help one another, we must take the rough with the smooth," said Mrs. McBryde. Miss Derek was there too, still making jokes about her comic Maharajah and Rani. Required as a witness at the trial, she had refused to send back the Mudkul car; they would be frightfully sick. Both Mrs. McBryde and Miss Derek kissed her, and called her by her Christian name. Then Ronny drove her back. It was early in the morning, for the day, as the hot weather advanced, swelled like a monster at both ends, and left less and less room for the movements of mortals. As they neared his bungalow, he said: "Mother's looking forward to seeing you, but of course she's old, one mustn't forget that. Old people never take things as one expects, in my opinion." He seemed warning her against approaching disappointment, but she took no notice. Her friendship with Mrs. Moore was so deep and real that she felt sure it would last, whatever else happened. "What can I do to make things easier for you? it's you who matter," she sighed. "Dear old girl to say so." "Dear old boy." Then she cried: "Ronny, she isn't ill too?" He reassured her; Major Callendar was not dissatisfied. "But you'll find her irritable. We are an irritable family. Well, you'll see for yourself. No doubt my own nerves are out of order, and I expected more from mother when I came in from the office than she felt able to give. She is sure to make a special effort for you; still, I don't want your home-coming to be a disappointing one. Don't expect too much." The house came in sight. It was a replica of the bungalow she had left. Puffy, red, and curiously severe, Mrs. Moore was revealed upon a sofa. She didn't get up when they entered, and the surprise of this roused Adela from her own troubles. "Here you are both back," was the only greeting. Adela sat down and took her hand. It withdrew, and she felt that just as others repelled her, so did she repel Mrs. Moore. "Are you all right? You appeared all right when I left," said Ronny, trying not to speak crossly, but he had instructed her to give the girl a pleasant welcome, and he could not but feel annoyed. "I am all right," she said heavily. "As a matter of fact I have been looking at my return ticket. It is interchangeable, so I have a much larger choice of boats home than I thought." "We can go into that later, can't we?" "Ralph and Stella may be wanting to know when I arrive." "There is plenty of time for all such plans. How do you think our Adela looks?" "I am counting on you to help me through; it is such a blessing to be with you again, everyone else is a stranger," said the girl rapidly. But Mrs. Moore showed no inclination to be helpful. A sort of resentment emanated from her. She seemed to say: "Am I to be bothered for ever?" Her Christian tenderness had gone, or had developed into a hardness, a just irritation against the human race; she had taken no interest at the arrest, asked scarcely any questions, and had refused to leave her bed on the awful last night of Mohurram, when an attack was expected on the bungalow. "I know it's	a strange confession to make. Will you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is from Fielding." "Why should he write to me?" "A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence got hold of him." "He's a crank, a crank," said Ronny lightly. "That's your way of putting it, but a man can be a crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better know how he behaved to you. If you don't tell her, somebody else will." He told her. "He is now the mainstay of the defence, I needn't add. He is the one righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut and smear one another's hands with scent. It is not easy to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are on strike out of enthusiasm for him they won't learn their lessons. If it weren't for Fielding one would never have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it in case it was useful to us." "Is it?" she said feebly. "Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest you have made a mistake." "Would that I had!"<\|quote\|>She glanced through the letter, which was careful and formal in its wording. "Dr. Aziz is innocent," she read. Then her voice began to tremble again.</\|quote\|>"But think of his behaviour to you, Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing to give? What is the use of personal relationships when everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the things I thought I'd learnt are just a hindrance, they're not knowledge at all. I'm not fit for personal relationships. Well, let's go, let's go. Of course Mr. Fielding's letter doesn't count; he can think and write what he likes, only he shouldn't have been rude to you when you had so much to bear. That's what matters. . . . I don't want your arm, I'm a magnificent walker, so don't touch me, please." Mrs. McBryde wished her an affectionate good-bye a woman with whom she had nothing in common and whose intimacy oppressed her. They would have to meet now, year after year, until one of their husbands was superannuated. Truly Anglo-India had caught her with a vengeance, and perhaps it served her right for having tried to take up a line of her own. Humbled yet repelled, she gave thanks. "Oh, we must help one another, we must take the rough with the smooth," said Mrs. McBryde. Miss Derek was there too, still making jokes about her comic Maharajah and Rani. Required as a witness at the trial, she had refused to send back the Mudkul car; they would be frightfully sick. Both Mrs. McBryde and Miss Derek kissed her, and called her by her Christian name. Then Ronny drove her back. It was early in the morning, for the day, as the hot weather advanced, swelled like a monster at both ends, and left less and less room for the movements of mortals. As they neared his bungalow, he said: "Mother's looking forward to seeing you, but of course she's old, one mustn't forget that. Old people never take things as one expects, in my opinion." He seemed warning her against approaching disappointment, but she took no notice. Her friendship with Mrs. Moore was so deep and real that she felt sure it would last, whatever else happened. "What can I do to make things easier for you? it's you who matter," she sighed. "Dear old girl to say so." "Dear old boy." Then she cried: "Ronny, she isn't ill too?" He reassured her; Major Callendar was not dissatisfied. "But you'll find her irritable. We are an irritable family. Well, you'll see for yourself. No doubt my own nerves	A Passage To India
"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."	Lord Fermor	Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling	"Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat;	the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son,	country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays	collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle	from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his father s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." "Kelso s grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if	you will come, too, Basil, won t you?" "I can t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do." "Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray." "I should like that awfully." The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I shall stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly. "Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling across to him. "Am I really like that?" "Yes; you are just like that." "How wonderful, Basil!" "At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," sighed Hallward. "That is something." "What a fuss people make about fidelity!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "Why, even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say." "Don t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and dine with me." "I can t, Basil." "Why?" "Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him." "He won t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go." Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head. "I entreat you." The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile. "I must go, Basil," he answered. "Very well," said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on the tray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow." "Certainly." "You won t forget?" "No, of course not," cried Dorian. "And ... Harry!" "Yes, Basil?" "Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning." "I have forgotten it." "I trust you." "I wish I could trust myself," said Lord Henry, laughing. "Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place. Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon." As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face. CHAPTER III. At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his father s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." "Kelso s grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap." "He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry. "I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man. "He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies." "I don t know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?" "Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn t a girl in London at the time who wasn t after him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain t English girls good enough for him?" "It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George." "I ll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor, striking	people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his father s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.<\|quote\|>"Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything."</\|quote\|>"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." "Kelso s grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him,	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."	Dr Messinger	waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking	to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none	that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had	to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her	two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig	two years with black gentleman, Mr Forbes. You like cigarettes--" "Yes, give me cigarettes." "You come with men in boats, I give you plenty, plenty cigarettes." Rosa looked stolidly ahead of her and said nothing. "Listen. You will have your man and seven others to protect you. How can we talk with men without you?" "Men no go," said Rosa. "Of course the men will go. The only question is, will you come too?" "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples," said Rosa. "Oh God," said Dr Messinger wearily. "All right, we'll talk about it in the morning." "You give me cigarette...." "It's going to be awkward if that woman doesn't come." "It's going to be much more awkward if none of them come," said Tony. * * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores," said Dr Messinger. "There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this," she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply. "Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them	The canoes would not hold all the stores and an "emergency dump" was made a little way up the bank. "We shall take eight men with us. Four can stay behind with the women to guard the camp. Once we are among the Pie-wies, everything will be easy. These Macushis can go home then. I don't think they will rob the stores. There is nothing here that would be much use to them." "Hadn't we better keep Rosa with us to act as interpreter with the Macushis?" "Yes, perhaps we had. I will tell her." That evening everything was finished except the paddles. In the first exhilarating hour of darkness, when Tony and Dr Messinger were able to discard the gloves and veils that had been irking them all day, they called Rosa across to the part of the camp where they ate and slept. "Rosa, we have decided to take you down the river with us. We need you to help us talk to the men. Understand?" Rosa said nothing; her face was perfectly blank, lit from below by the storm lantern that stood on a box between them; the shadow of her high cheekbones hid her eyes; lank, ragged hair, a tenuous straggle of tattooing along the forehead and lip, rotund body in its filthy cotton gown, bandy brown legs. "Understand?" But still she said nothing; she seemed to be looking over their heads into the dark forest, but her eyes were lost in shadow. "Listen, Rosa, all women and four men stay here in camp. Eight men come in boats to Pie-wie village. You come with boats. When we reach Pie-wie village, you and eight men and boats go back to camp to other women and men. Then back to Macushi country. Understand?" At last Rosa spoke. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "I am not asking you to go _with_ Pie-wie people. You and the men take us as far as Pie-wies, then you go back to Macushi people. Understand?" Rosa raised her arm in an embracing circle which covered the camp and the road they had travelled and the broad savannahs behind them. "Macushi peoples there," she said. Then she raised the other arm and waved it downstream towards the hidden country. "Pie-wie peoples there," she said. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "Now listen, Rosa. You are sensible, civilized woman. You lived two years with black gentleman, Mr Forbes. You like cigarettes--" "Yes, give me cigarettes." "You come with men in boats, I give you plenty, plenty cigarettes." Rosa looked stolidly ahead of her and said nothing. "Listen. You will have your man and seven others to protect you. How can we talk with men without you?" "Men no go," said Rosa. "Of course the men will go. The only question is, will you come too?" "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples," said Rosa. "Oh God," said Dr Messinger wearily. "All right, we'll talk about it in the morning." "You give me cigarette...." "It's going to be awkward if that woman doesn't come." "It's going to be much more awkward if none of them come," said Tony. * * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores," said Dr Messinger. "There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this," she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply. "Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the floor of the toy department. They were of German manufacture; the size of large rats, but conspicuously painted in spots of green and white; they had large glass eyes, stiff whiskers and green-and-white-ringed tails; they ran on hidden wheels, and inside them were little bells that jingled as they moved. Dr Messinger took one out of their box, unwrapped the tissue-paper and held it up to general scrutiny. There was no doubt that he had captured his audience's interest. Then he wound it up. The Indians stirred apprehensively at the sound. The ground where they were camping was hard mud, inundated at flood time. Dr Messinger put the toy down at his feet and set it going; tinkling merrily it ran towards the group of Indians. For a moment, Tony was afraid that it would turn over or become stuck against a root, but the mechanism was unimpaired and by good chance there was a clear course. The effect exceeded anything that he had expected. There was a loud intake of breath, a series of horrified, small grunts, a high wail of terror from the women, and a sudden stampede; a faint patter of bare brown feet among the fallen leaves, bare limbs, quiet as bats, pushed through the undergrowth, ragged cotton gowns caught and tore in the thorn bushes. Before the toy had run down, before it had jingled its way to the place where the nearest Indian had been squatting, the camp was empty. "Well, I'm damned," said Dr Messinger, "that's better than I expected." "More than you expected, anyway." "Oh, it's all right. They'll come back. I know them." But by sundown there was still no sign. Throughout the hot afternoon Tony and Dr Messinger, shrouded from cabouri fly, sprawled in their hammocks. The empty canoes lay in the river; the mechanical mouse had been put away. At sundown Dr Messinger said, "We'd better make a fire. They'll come back when it is dark." They brushed the earth away from the old embers, brought new wood and made a fire; they lit the storm lantern. "We'd better get	* Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores," said Dr Messinger. "There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside.<\|quote\|>"They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them."</\|quote\|>They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this," she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply. "Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the floor of the toy department. They were of German manufacture; the size of large rats, but conspicuously painted in spots of green and white; they had large glass eyes, stiff whiskers and green-and-white-ringed tails; they ran on hidden wheels, and inside them were little bells that jingled as they moved. Dr Messinger took one out of their box, unwrapped the tissue-paper and held it up to general scrutiny. There was no doubt that he had captured his audience's interest. Then he wound it up. The Indians stirred apprehensively at the sound. The ground where they were camping was hard mud, inundated at flood time. Dr Messinger put the toy down at his feet and set it going; tinkling merrily it ran towards the group of Indians. For a moment, Tony was afraid that it would turn over or become stuck against a root, but the mechanism was unimpaired	A Handful Of Dust
"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."	Ellen Olenska	irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved	unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away.	a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?"	he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way	saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The	started to walk across the Common; and on the first bench, under a tree, he saw her sitting. She had a grey silk sunshade over her head--how could he ever have imagined her with a pink one? As he approached he was struck by her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. He saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took another plunge. "And the person?" "-- "The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..." "And you came out here to think the chance over?" "I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's too stifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back to Portsmouth." They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "You're not changed." He felt like answering:	waited for his toast and scrambled eggs. A new sense of energy and activity had possessed him ever since he had announced to May the night before that he had business in Boston, and should take the Fall River boat that night and go on to New York the following evening. It had always been understood that he would return to town early in the week, and when he got back from his expedition to Portsmouth a letter from the office, which fate had conspicuously placed on a corner of the hall table, sufficed to justify his sudden change of plan. He was even ashamed of the ease with which the whole thing had been done: it reminded him, for an uncomfortable moment, of Lawrence Lefferts's masterly contrivances for securing his freedom. But this did not long trouble him, for he was not in an analytic mood. After breakfast he smoked a cigarette and glanced over the Commercial Advertiser. While he was thus engaged two or three men he knew came in, and the usual greetings were exchanged: it was the same world after all, though he had such a queer sense of having slipped through the meshes of time and space. He looked at his watch, and finding that it was half-past nine got up and went into the writing-room. There he wrote a few lines, and ordered a messenger to take a cab to the Parker House and wait for the answer. He then sat down behind another newspaper and tried to calculate how long it would take a cab to get to the Parker House. "The lady was out, sir," he suddenly heard a waiter's voice at his elbow; and he stammered: "Out?--" as if it were a word in a strange language. He got up and went into the hall. It must be a mistake: she could not be out at that hour. He flushed with anger at his own stupidity: why had he not sent the note as soon as he arrived? He found his hat and stick and went forth into the street. The city had suddenly become as strange and vast and empty as if he were a traveller from distant lands. For a moment he stood on the door-step hesitating; then he decided to go to the Parker House. What if the messenger had been misinformed, and she were still there? He started to walk across the Common; and on the first bench, under a tree, he saw her sitting. She had a grey silk sunshade over her head--how could he ever have imagined her with a pink one? As he approached he was struck by her listless attitude: she sat there as if she had nothing else to do. He saw her drooping profile, and the knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took another plunge. "And the person?" "-- "The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..." "And you came out here to think the chance over?" "I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's too stifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back to Portsmouth." They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "You're not changed." He felt like answering: "I was, till I saw you again;" but instead he stood up abruptly and glanced about him at the untidy sweltering park. "This is horrible. Why shouldn't we go out a little on the bay? There's a breeze, and it will be cooler. We might take the steamboat down to Point Arley." She glanced up at him hesitatingly and he went on: "On a Monday morning there won't be anybody on the boat. My train doesn't leave till evening: I'm going back to New York. Why shouldn't we?" he insisted, looking down at her; and suddenly he broke out: "Haven't we done all we could?" "Oh" "--she murmured again. She stood up and reopened her sunshade, glancing about her as if to take counsel of the scene, and assure herself of the impossibility of remaining in it. Then her eyes returned to his face. "You mustn't say things like that to me," she said. "I'll say anything you like; or nothing. I won't open my mouth unless you tell me to. What harm can it do to anybody? All I want is to listen to you," he stammered. She drew out a little gold-faced watch on an enamelled chain. "Oh, don't calculate," he broke out; "give me the day! I want to get you away from that man. At what time was he coming?" Her colour rose again. "At eleven." "Then you must come at once." "You needn't be afraid--if I don't come." "Nor you either--if you do. I swear I only want to hear about you, to know what you've been doing. It's a hundred years since we've met--it may be another hundred before we meet again." She still wavered, her anxious eyes on his face. "Why didn't you come down to the beach to fetch me, the day I was at Granny's?" she asked. "Because you didn't look round--because you didn't know I was there. I swore I wouldn't unless you looked round." He laughed as the childishness of the confession struck him. "But I didn't look round on purpose." "On purpose?" "I knew you were there; when you drove in I recognised the ponies. So I went down to the beach." "To get away from me as far as you could?" She repeated in a low voice: "To get away from you as far as I could." He laughed out again, this time in boyish satisfaction. "Well,	knot of hair fastened low in the neck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkled glove on the hand that held the sunshade. He came a step or two nearer, and she turned and looked at him. "Oh" "--she said; and for the first time he noticed a startled look on her face; but in another moment it gave way to a slow smile of wonder and contentment. "Oh" "--she murmured again, on a different note, as he stood looking down at her; and without rising she made a place for him on the bench. "I'm here on business--just got here," Archer explained; and, without knowing why, he suddenly began to feign astonishment at seeing her. "But what on earth are you doing in this wilderness?" He had really no idea what he was saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her across endless distances, and she might vanish again before he could overtake her. "I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered, turning her head toward him so that they were face to face. The words hardly reached him: he was aware only of her voice, and of the startling fact that not an echo of it had remained in his memory. He had not even remembered that it was low-pitched, with a faint roughness on the consonants. "You do your hair differently," he said, his heart beating as if he had uttered something irrevocable. "Differently? No--it's only that I do it as best I can when I'm without Nastasia." "Nastasia; but isn't she with you?" "No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worth while to bring her." "You're alone--at the Parker House?" She looked at him with a flash of her old malice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?" "No; not dangerous--" "But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." She considered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it, because I've just done something so much more unconventional." The faint tinge of irony lingered in her eyes.<\|quote\|>"I've just refused to take back a sum of money--that belonged to me."</\|quote\|>Archer sprang up and moved a step or two away. She had furled her parasol and sat absently drawing patterns on the gravel. Presently he came back and stood before her. "Some one--has come here to meet you?" "Yes." "With this offer?" She nodded. "And you refused--because of the conditions?" "I refused," she said after a moment. He sat down by her again. "What were the conditions?" "Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at the head of his table now and then." There was another interval of silence. Archer's heart had slammed itself shut in the queer way it had, and he sat vainly groping for a word. "He wants you back--at any price?" "Well--a considerable price. At least the sum is considerable for me." He paused again, beating about the question he felt he must put. "It was to meet him here that you came?" She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meet him--my husband? HERE? At this season he's always at Cowes or Baden." "He sent some one?" "Yes." "With a letter?" She shook her head. "No; just a message. He never writes. I don't think I've had more than one letter from him." The allusion brought the colour to her cheek, and it reflected itself in Archer's vivid blush. "Why does he never write?" "Why should he? What does one have secretaries for?" The young man's blush deepened. She had pronounced the word as if it had no more significance than any other in her vocabulary. For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask: "Did he send his secretary, then?" But the remembrance of Count Olenski's only letter to his wife was too present to him. He paused again, and then took another plunge. "And the person?" "-- "The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olenska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care, have left already; but he has insisted on waiting till this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..." "And you came out here to think the chance over?" "I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's too stifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back to Portsmouth." They sat silent, not looking at each other, but straight ahead at the people passing along the path. Finally she turned her eyes again to his face and said: "You're not changed." He felt like answering: "I was, till I saw you again;" but instead he stood up abruptly and glanced about him at the untidy sweltering park. "This is horrible. Why shouldn't we go out a little on the bay? There's a breeze, and it will be cooler. We might take the steamboat down to Point Arley." She glanced up at him hesitatingly and he went on: "On a Monday morning there won't be anybody on the boat. My train doesn't leave till evening: I'm going back to New York. Why shouldn't we?" he insisted, looking down	The Age Of Innocence
said Pooh.	No speaker	"What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear	such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and	Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding	to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed."	AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said	skipping from time to time in front of the sun as if they had come to put it out, and then sliding away suddenly so that the next might have his turn. Through them and between them the sun shone bravely; and a copse which had worn its firs all the year round seemed old and dowdy now beside the new green lace which the beeches had put on so prettily. Through copse and spinney marched Bear; down open slopes of gorse and heather, over rocky beds of streams, up steep banks of sandstone into the heather again; and so at last, tired and hungry, to the Hundred Acre Wood. For it was in the Hundred Acre Wood that Owl lived. "And if anyone knows anything about anything," said Bear to himself, "it's Owl who knows something about something," he said, "or my name's not Winnie-the-Pooh," he said. "Which it is," he added. "So there you are." Owl lived at The Chestnuts, an old-world residence of great charm, which was grander than anybody else's, or seemed so to Bear, because it had both a knocker _and_ a bell-pull. Underneath the knocker there was a notice which said: PLES RING IF AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be." And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin. "It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he	Donkey, Eeyore, stood by himself in a thistly corner of the forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things. Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, "Why?" and sometimes he thought, "Wherefore?" and sometimes he thought, "Inasmuch as which?" "--and sometimes he didn't quite know what he _was_ thinking about. So when Winnie-the-Pooh came stumping along, Eeyore was very glad to be able to stop thinking for a little, in order to say "How do you do?" in a gloomy manner to him. "And how are you?" said Winnie-the-Pooh. Eeyore shook his head from side to side. "Not very how," he said. "I don't seem to have felt at all how for a long time." "Dear, dear," said Pooh, "I'm sorry about that. Let's have a look at you." So Eeyore stood there, gazing sadly at the ground, and Winnie-the-Pooh walked all round him once. "Why, what's happened to your tail?" he said in surprise. "What _has_ happened to it?" said Eeyore. "It isn't there!" "Are you sure?" "Well, either a tail _is_ there or it isn't there. You can't make a mistake about it. And yours _isn't_ there!" "Then what is?" "Nothing." "Let's have a look," said Eeyore, and he turned slowly round to the place where his tail had been a little while ago, and then, finding that he couldn't catch it up, he turned round the other way, until he came back to where he was at first, and then he put his head down and looked between his front legs, and at last he said, with a long, sad sigh, "I believe you're right." "Of course I'm right," said Pooh. "That Accounts for a Good Deal," said Eeyore gloomily. "It Explains Everything. No Wonder." "You must have left it somewhere," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Somebody must have taken it," said Eeyore. "How Like Them," he added, after a long silence. Pooh felt that he ought to say something helpful about it, but didn't quite know what. So he decided to do something helpful instead. "Eeyore," he said solemnly, "I, Winnie-the-Pooh, will find your tail for you." "Thank you, Pooh," answered Eeyore. "You're a real friend," said he. "Not like Some," he said. So Winnie-the-Pooh went off to find Eeyore's tail. It was a fine spring morning in the forest as he started out. Little soft clouds played happily in a blue sky, skipping from time to time in front of the sun as if they had come to put it out, and then sliding away suddenly so that the next might have his turn. Through them and between them the sun shone bravely; and a copse which had worn its firs all the year round seemed old and dowdy now beside the new green lace which the beeches had put on so prettily. Through copse and spinney marched Bear; down open slopes of gorse and heather, over rocky beds of streams, up steep banks of sandstone into the heather again; and so at last, tired and hungry, to the Hundred Acre Wood. For it was in the Hundred Acre Wood that Owl lived. "And if anyone knows anything about anything," said Bear to himself, "it's Owl who knows something about something," he said, "or my name's not Winnie-the-Pooh," he said. "Which it is," he added. "So there you are." Owl lived at The Chestnuts, an old-world residence of great charm, which was grander than anybody else's, or seemed so to Bear, because it had both a knocker _and_ a bell-pull. Underneath the knocker there was a notice which said: PLES RING IF AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be." And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin. "It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked at the knocker and the notice below it, and he looked at the bell-rope and the notice below it, and the more he looked at the bell-rope, the more he felt that he had seen something like it, somewhere else, sometime before. "Handsome bell-rope, isn't it?" said Owl. Pooh nodded. "It reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't think what. Where did you get it?" "I just came across it in the Forest. It was hanging over a bush, and I thought at first somebody lived there, so I rang it, and nothing happened, and then I rang it again very loudly, and it came off in my hand, and as nobody seemed to want it, I took it home, and----" "Owl," said Pooh solemnly, "you made a mistake. Somebody did want it." "Who?" "Eeyore. My dear friend Eeyore. He was--he was fond of it." "Fond of it?" "Attached to it," said Winnie-the-Pooh sadly. * * * * * So with these words he unhooked it, and carried it back to Eeyore; and when Christopher Robin had nailed it on in its right place again, Eeyore frisked about the forest, waving his tail so happily that Winnie-the-Pooh came over all funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of something to sustain him. And, 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	you, Pooh," answered Eeyore. "You're a real friend," said he. "Not like Some," he said. So Winnie-the-Pooh went off to find Eeyore's tail. It was a fine spring morning in the forest as he started out. Little soft clouds played happily in a blue sky, skipping from time to time in front of the sun as if they had come to put it out, and then sliding away suddenly so that the next might have his turn. Through them and between them the sun shone bravely; and a copse which had worn its firs all the year round seemed old and dowdy now beside the new green lace which the beeches had put on so prettily. Through copse and spinney marched Bear; down open slopes of gorse and heather, over rocky beds of streams, up steep banks of sandstone into the heather again; and so at last, tired and hungry, to the Hundred Acre Wood. For it was in the Hundred Acre Wood that Owl lived. "And if anyone knows anything about anything," said Bear to himself, "it's Owl who knows something about something," he said, "or my name's not Winnie-the-Pooh," he said. "Which it is," he added. "So there you are." Owl lived at The Chestnuts, an old-world residence of great charm, which was grander than anybody else's, or seemed so to Bear, because it had both a knocker _and_ a bell-pull. Underneath the knocker there was a notice which said: PLES RING IF AN RNSER IS REQIRD. Underneath the bell-pull there was a notice which said: PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID. These notices had been written by Christopher Robin, who was the only one in the forest who could spell; for Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTEREDTOAST. Winnie-the-Pooh read the two notices very carefully, first from left to right, and afterwards, in case he had missed some of it, from right to left. Then, to make quite sure, he knocked and pulled the knocker, and he pulled and knocked the bell-rope, and he called out in a very loud voice, "Owl! I require an answer! It's Bear speaking." And the door opened, and Owl looked out. "Hallo, Pooh," he said. "How's things?" "Terrible and Sad," said Pooh, "because Eeyore, who is a friend of mine, has lost his tail. And he's Moping about it. So could you very kindly tell me how to find it for him?" "Well," said Owl, "the customary procedure in such cases is as follows." "What does Crustimoney Proseedcake mean?"<\|quote\|>said Pooh.</\|quote\|>"For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me." "It means the Thing to Do." "As long as it means that, I don't mind," said Pooh humbly. "The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then----" "Just a moment," said Pooh, holding up his paw. "_What_ do we do to this--what you were saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me." "I _didn't_ sneeze." "Yes, you did, Owl." "Excuse me, Pooh, I didn't. You can't sneeze without knowing it." "Well, you can't know it without something having been sneezed." "What I _said_ was, 'First _Issue_ a Reward'." "You're doing it again," said Pooh sadly. "A Reward!" said Owl very loudly. "We write a notice to say that we will give a large something to anybody who finds Eeyore's tail." "I see, I see," said Pooh, nodding his head. "Talking about large somethings," he went on dreamily, "I generally have a small something about now--about this time in the morning," and he looked wistfully at the cupboard in the corner of Owl's parlour; "just a mouthful of condensed milk or whatnot, with perhaps a lick of honey----" "Well, then," said Owl, "we write out this notice, and we put it up all over the forest." "A lick of honey," murmured Bear to himself, "or--or not, as the case may be." And he gave a deep sigh, and tried very hard to listen to what Owl was saying. But Owl went on and on, using longer and longer words, until at last he came back to where he started, and he explained that the person to write out this notice was Christopher Robin. "It was he who wrote the ones on my front door for me. Did you see them, Pooh?" For some time now Pooh had been saying "Yes" and "No" in turn, with his eyes shut, to all that Owl was saying, and having said, "Yes, yes," last time, he said "No, not at all," now, without really knowing what Owl was talking about. "Didn't you see them?" said Owl, a little surprised. "Come and look at them now." So they went outside. And Pooh looked	Winnie The Pooh
"It's quite all right... I just wondered."	Brenda	I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they	if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was	it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go.	would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread	the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her. "I'm sure you want to go away." "No, really." "I've got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied:	the osteopath's table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver would be at home that evening. "Probably not, if he's so keen on going about," she thought, "and, anyhow, what's the sense?..." But he was there, in spite of two other invitations. She heard all about the maisonette. Mrs Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long-felt need, Mrs Beaver said. "I'll ask my husband and let you know." "You _will_ let me know soon, won't you, because _everyone_ will be wanting one." "I'll let you know very soon." When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her. "I'm sure you want to go away." "No, really." "I've got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day," Tony remarked. "I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "Is she nice?" "Mummy thinks so. I don't." "Why?" "Because she looks like a monkey." "I should love to see her. Does she live in a cage? Has she got a tail? Ben saw a woman who looked like a fish, with scales all over instead of skin. It was in a circus in Cairo. Smelt like a fish too, Ben says." They were having tea together on the afternoon of Brenda's departure. "Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?" "Oh, nuts and things." "Nuts and what things?" "Different kinds of nuts." For days to come the image of this hairy, mischievous Countess occupied John Andrew's mind. She became one of the inhabitants of his world, like Peppermint, the mule who died of rum. When kindly people spoke to him in the village he would tell them about her and how she swung head down from	guests being chosen for no mutual bond--least of all affection for Mrs Beaver or for each other--except that their names were in current use--an accessible but not wholly renegade duke, an unmarried girl of experience, a dancer and a novelist and a scene designer, a shamefaced junior minister who had not realized what he was in for until too late, and Lady Cockpurse. "God, what a party," said Marjorie, waving brightly to them all. "You're both coming to my party, darlings?" Polly Cockpurse's strident tones rang across the restaurant. "Only don't tell anyone about it. It's just a very small, secret party. The house will only hold a few people--just old friends." "It would be wonderful to see what Polly's _real_ old friends were like," said Marjorie. "She hasn't known anyone more than five years." "I wish Tony could see her point." (Although Polly's fortune was derived from men, her popularity was chiefly among women, who admired her clothes and bought them from her second-hand at bargain prices; her first steps to eminence had been in circles so obscure that they had made her no enemies in the world to which she aspired; some time ago she had married a good-natured earl, whom nobody else happened to want at the time; since then she had scaled all but the highest peaks of every social mountain.) After luncheon Mrs Beaver came across to their table. "I _must_ come and speak to you, though I'm in a great hurry. It's _so_ long since we met and John has been telling me about a _delightful_ week-end he had with you." "It was very quiet." "That's just what he _loves_. Poor boy, he gets rushed off his feet in London. Tell me, Lady Brenda, is it true you are looking for a flat?--because I think I've got just the place for you. It's being done up now and will be ready well before Christmas." She looked at her watch. "Oh dear, I must fly. You couldn't possibly come in for a cocktail, this evening? Then you could hear all about it." "I _could_..." said Brenda doubtfully. "Then _do_. I'll expect you about six. I daresay you don't know where I live?" She told her and left the table. "What's all this about a flat?" Marjorie asked. "Oh, just something I thought of..." * * * * * That afternoon, as she lay luxuriously on the osteopath's table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver would be at home that evening. "Probably not, if he's so keen on going about," she thought, "and, anyhow, what's the sense?..." But he was there, in spite of two other invitations. She heard all about the maisonette. Mrs Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long-felt need, Mrs Beaver said. "I'll ask my husband and let you know." "You _will_ let me know soon, won't you, because _everyone_ will be wanting one." "I'll let you know very soon." When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her. "I'm sure you want to go away." "No, really." "I've got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day," Tony remarked. "I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "Is she nice?" "Mummy thinks so. I don't." "Why?" "Because she looks like a monkey." "I should love to see her. Does she live in a cage? Has she got a tail? Ben saw a woman who looked like a fish, with scales all over instead of skin. It was in a circus in Cairo. Smelt like a fish too, Ben says." They were having tea together on the afternoon of Brenda's departure. "Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?" "Oh, nuts and things." "Nuts and what things?" "Different kinds of nuts." For days to come the image of this hairy, mischievous Countess occupied John Andrew's mind. She became one of the inhabitants of his world, like Peppermint, the mule who died of rum. When kindly people spoke to him in the village he would tell them about her and how she swung head down from a tree throwing nutshells at passers-by. "You mustn't say things like that about real people," said nanny. "Whatever would Lady Cockpurse do if she heard about it?" "She'd gibber and chatter and lash round with her tail, and then I expect she'd catch some nice, big, juicy fleas and forget all about it." * * * * * Brenda was staying at Marjorie's for the night. She was dressed first and came into her sister's room. "Lovely, darling. New?" "Fairly." Marjorie was rung up by the woman at whose house she was dining. (" "Look here, are you absolutely sure you can't make Allan come to-night?" "Absolutely. He's got a meeting in Camberwell. He may not even come to Polly's." "Is there _any_ man you can bring?" "Can't think of anybody." "Well, we shall have to be one short, that's all. I can't think what's happened to-night. I rang up John Beaver but even _he_ won't come." ") "You know," said Marjorie, putting down the telephone, "you're causing a great deal of trouble. You've taken London's only spare man." "Oh dear, I didn't realize..." Beaver arrived at quarter to nine in a state of high self-approval; he had refused two invitations to dinner while dressing that evening; he had cashed a cheque for ten pounds at his club; he had booked a divan table at Espinosa's. It was almost the first time in his life that he had taken anyone out to dinner, but he knew perfectly well how it was done. "I must see your Mr Beaver properly," said Marjorie. "Let's make him take off his coat and drink something." The two sisters were a little shy as they came downstairs, but Beaver was perfectly at his ease. He looked very elegant and rather more than his age. "Oh, he's not so bad, your Mr Beaver," Marjorie's look seemed to say, "not by any means," and he, seeing the two women together, who were both beautiful, though in a manner so different that, although it was apparent that they were sisters, they might have belonged each to a separate race, began to understand what had perplexed him all the week; why, contrary to all habit and principle, he had telegraphed to Brenda asking her to dine. "Mrs Jimmy Deane's very upset that she couldn't get you for to-night. I didn't give away what you were doing." "Give her my	must fly. You couldn't possibly come in for a cocktail, this evening? Then you could hear all about it." "I _could_..." said Brenda doubtfully. "Then _do_. I'll expect you about six. I daresay you don't know where I live?" She told her and left the table. "What's all this about a flat?" Marjorie asked. "Oh, just something I thought of..." * * * * * That afternoon, as she lay luxuriously on the osteopath's table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver would be at home that evening. "Probably not, if he's so keen on going about," she thought, "and, anyhow, what's the sense?..." But he was there, in spite of two other invitations. She heard all about the maisonette. Mrs Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long-felt need, Mrs Beaver said. "I'll ask my husband and let you know." "You _will_ let me know soon, won't you, because _everyone_ will be wanting one." "I'll let you know very soon." When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her. "I'm sure you want to go away." "No, really." "I've got lots to read." "I _want_ to stay." "It's very sweet of you." Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, "I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?" Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant... three pounds at least... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening... "I wish I could," he said, "but I've promised to dine out for it." Brenda had observed his hesitation. "I was afraid you would have." "But we'll meet there." "Yes, if I go." "I wish I could have taken you."<\|quote\|>"It's quite all right... I just wondered."</\|quote\|>The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, "Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now." "Yes, run along. Thank you for coming." He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. "Why _should_ he want to take me, poor boy?" she thought. "Only he might have done it better." * * * * * "Barnardo case?" Brenda nodded. "Down and out," she said, "sunk, right under." She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing. "Good day?" She nodded. "Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone-setter. That's all." "You know I wish you'd give up these day-trips to London. They're far too much for you." "Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move." * * * * * Next day a telegram came from Beaver. _Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free._ She replied: _Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda._ Up till then they had avoided Christian names. "You seem in wonderful spirits to-day," Tony remarked. "I feel big. I think it's Mr Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything." [III] "Where's mummy gone?" "London." "Why?" "Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party." "Is she nice?" "Mummy thinks so. I don't." "Why?" "Because she looks like a monkey." "I should love to see her. Does she live in a cage? Has she got a tail? Ben saw a woman who looked like a fish, with scales all over instead of skin. It was in a circus in Cairo. Smelt like a fish too, Ben says." They were having tea together on the afternoon of Brenda's departure. "Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?" "Oh, nuts and things." "Nuts and what things?" "Different kinds of nuts." For days to come the image of this hairy, mischievous Countess occupied John Andrew's mind. She became one of the inhabitants of his world, like Peppermint, the mule who died of rum. When kindly people spoke to him in the village he would tell them about her and how she swung head down from a tree throwing nutshells at passers-by. "You mustn't say things like that about real people," said nanny. "Whatever would Lady Cockpurse do if she heard about it?" "She'd gibber and chatter and lash round with her tail, and then I expect she'd catch some nice, big, juicy fleas and forget all about it." * * * * * Brenda was staying at Marjorie's for the night. She was dressed first and came into her sister's room. "Lovely, darling. New?" "Fairly." Marjorie was rung up by the woman at whose house she was	A Handful Of Dust
"It s all so _simple_."	Mrs. Seal	discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter	lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source	admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few	I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she	alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another. "To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without Reality?" Doing homage to the phrase, she repeated it once more, and caught the ear of Mr. Clacton, as he issued from his room; and he repeated it a third time, giving it, as he was in the habit of doing with Mrs. Seal s phrases, a dryly humorous intonation. He was well pleased with the world, however, and he remarked, in a flattering manner, that he would like to see that phrase in large letters at the head of a leaflet. "But, Mrs. Seal, we have to aim at a judicious combination of the	the conversation had taken, that she plunged her head into the cupboard, and endeavored to abstract some very obscure piece of china. "We have our work," she said, withdrawing her head, displaying cheeks more than usually crimson, and placing a jam-pot emphatically upon the table. But, for the moment, she was unable to launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime," said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another. "To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without Reality?" Doing homage to the phrase, she repeated it once more, and caught the ear of Mr. Clacton, as he issued from his room; and he repeated it a third time, giving it, as he was in the habit of doing with Mrs. Seal s phrases, a dryly humorous intonation. He was well pleased with the world, however, and he remarked, in a flattering manner, that he would like to see that phrase in large letters at the head of a leaflet. "But, Mrs. Seal, we have to aim at a judicious combination of the two," he added in his magisterial way to check the unbalanced enthusiasm of the women. "Reality has to be voiced by reason before it can make itself felt. The weak point of all these movements, Miss Datchet," he continued, taking his place at the table and turning to Mary as usual when about to deliver his more profound cogitations, "is that they are not based upon sufficiently intellectual grounds. A mistake, in my opinion. The British public likes a pellet of reason in its jam of eloquence a pill of reason in its pudding of sentiment," he said, sharpening the phrase to a satisfactory degree of literary precision. His eyes rested, with something of the vanity of an author, upon the yellow leaflet which Mary held in her hand. She rose, took her seat at the head of the table, poured out tea for her colleagues, and gave her opinion upon the leaflet. So she had poured out tea, so she had criticized Mr. Clacton s leaflets a hundred times already; but now it seemed to her that she was doing it in a different spirit; she had enlisted in the army, and was a volunteer no longer. She had	desires and sufferings of the mass of mankind. She had been too lately and too roughly mastered by facts to take an easy pleasure in the relief of renunciation; such satisfaction as she felt came only from the discovery that, having renounced everything that made life happy, easy, splendid, individual, there remained a hard reality, unimpaired by one s personal adventures, remote as the stars, unquenchable as they are. While Mary Datchet was undergoing this curious transformation from the particular to the universal, Mrs. Seal remembered her duties with regard to the kettle and the gas-fire. She was a little surprised to find that Mary had drawn her chair to the window, and, having lit the gas, she raised herself from a stooping posture and looked at her. The most obvious reason for such an attitude in a secretary was some kind of indisposition. But Mary, rousing herself with an effort, denied that she was indisposed. "I m frightfully lazy this afternoon," she added, with a glance at her table. "You must really get another secretary, Sally." The words were meant to be taken lightly, but something in the tone of them roused a jealous fear which was always dormant in Mrs. Seal s breast. She was terribly afraid that one of these days Mary, the young woman who typified so many rather sentimental and enthusiastic ideas, who had some sort of visionary existence in white with a sheaf of lilies in her hand, would announce, in a jaunty way, that she was about to be married. "You don t mean that you re going to leave us?" she said. "I ve not made up my mind about anything," said Mary a remark which could be taken as a generalization. Mrs. Seal got the teacups out of the cupboard and set them on the table. "You re not going to be married, are you?" she asked, pronouncing the words with nervous speed. "Why are you asking such absurd questions this afternoon, Sally?" Mary asked, not very steadily. "Must we all get married?" Mrs. Seal emitted a most peculiar chuckle. She seemed for one moment to acknowledge the terrible side of life which is concerned with the emotions, the private lives, of the sexes, and then to sheer off from it with all possible speed into the shades of her own shivering virginity. She was made so uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken, that she plunged her head into the cupboard, and endeavored to abstract some very obscure piece of china. "We have our work," she said, withdrawing her head, displaying cheeks more than usually crimson, and placing a jam-pot emphatically upon the table. But, for the moment, she was unable to launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime," said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another. "To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without Reality?" Doing homage to the phrase, she repeated it once more, and caught the ear of Mr. Clacton, as he issued from his room; and he repeated it a third time, giving it, as he was in the habit of doing with Mrs. Seal s phrases, a dryly humorous intonation. He was well pleased with the world, however, and he remarked, in a flattering manner, that he would like to see that phrase in large letters at the head of a leaflet. "But, Mrs. Seal, we have to aim at a judicious combination of the two," he added in his magisterial way to check the unbalanced enthusiasm of the women. "Reality has to be voiced by reason before it can make itself felt. The weak point of all these movements, Miss Datchet," he continued, taking his place at the table and turning to Mary as usual when about to deliver his more profound cogitations, "is that they are not based upon sufficiently intellectual grounds. A mistake, in my opinion. The British public likes a pellet of reason in its jam of eloquence a pill of reason in its pudding of sentiment," he said, sharpening the phrase to a satisfactory degree of literary precision. His eyes rested, with something of the vanity of an author, upon the yellow leaflet which Mary held in her hand. She rose, took her seat at the head of the table, poured out tea for her colleagues, and gave her opinion upon the leaflet. So she had poured out tea, so she had criticized Mr. Clacton s leaflets a hundred times already; but now it seemed to her that she was doing it in a different spirit; she had enlisted in the army, and was a volunteer no longer. She had renounced something and was now how could she express it? not quite "in the running" for life. She had always known that Mr. Clacton and Mrs. Seal were not in the running, and across the gulf that separated them she had seen them in the guise of shadow people, flitting in and out of the ranks of the living eccentrics, undeveloped human beings, from whose substance some essential part had been cut away. All this had never struck her so clearly as it did this afternoon, when she felt that her lot was cast with them for ever. One view of the world plunged in darkness, so a more volatile temperament might have argued after a season of despair, let the world turn again and show another, more splendid, perhaps. No, Mary thought, with unflinching loyalty to what appeared to her to be the true view, having lost what is best, I do not mean to pretend that any other view does instead. Whatever happens, I mean to have no presences in my life. Her very words had a sort of distinctness which is sometimes produced by sharp, bodily pain. To Mrs. Seal s secret jubilation the rule which forbade discussion of shop at tea-time was overlooked. Mary and Mr. Clacton argued with a cogency and a ferocity which made the little woman feel that something very important she hardly knew what was taking place. She became much excited; one crucifix became entangled with another, and she dug a considerable hole in the table with the point of her pencil in order to emphasize the most striking heads of the discourse; and how any combination of Cabinet Ministers could resist such discourse she really did not know. She could hardly bring herself to remember her own private instrument of justice the typewriter. The telephone-bell rang, and as she hurried off to answer a voice which always seemed a proof of importance by itself, she felt that it was at this exact spot on the surface of the globe that all the subterranean wires of thought and progress came together. When she returned, with a message from the printer, she found that Mary was putting on her hat firmly; there was something imperious and dominating in her attitude altogether. "Look, Sally," she said, "these letters want copying. These I ve not looked at. The question of the new census will have	taken as a generalization. Mrs. Seal got the teacups out of the cupboard and set them on the table. "You re not going to be married, are you?" she asked, pronouncing the words with nervous speed. "Why are you asking such absurd questions this afternoon, Sally?" Mary asked, not very steadily. "Must we all get married?" Mrs. Seal emitted a most peculiar chuckle. She seemed for one moment to acknowledge the terrible side of life which is concerned with the emotions, the private lives, of the sexes, and then to sheer off from it with all possible speed into the shades of her own shivering virginity. She was made so uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken, that she plunged her head into the cupboard, and endeavored to abstract some very obscure piece of china. "We have our work," she said, withdrawing her head, displaying cheeks more than usually crimson, and placing a jam-pot emphatically upon the table. But, for the moment, she was unable to launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime," said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another. "To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully,<\|quote\|>"It s all so _simple_."</\|quote\|>She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without Reality?" Doing homage to the phrase, she repeated it once more, and caught the ear of Mr. Clacton, as he issued from his room; and he repeated it a third time, giving it, as he was in the habit of doing with Mrs. Seal s phrases, a dryly humorous intonation. He was well pleased with the world, however, and he remarked, in a flattering manner, that he would like to see that phrase in large letters at the head of a leaflet. "But, Mrs. Seal, we have to aim at a judicious combination of the two," he added in his magisterial way to check the unbalanced enthusiasm of the women. "Reality has to be voiced by reason before it can make itself felt. The weak point of all these movements, Miss Datchet," he continued, taking his place at the table and turning to Mary as usual when about to deliver his more profound cogitations, "is that they are not based upon sufficiently intellectual grounds. A mistake, in my opinion. The British public likes a pellet of reason in its jam of eloquence a pill of reason in its pudding of sentiment," he said, sharpening the phrase to a satisfactory degree of literary precision. His eyes rested, with something of the vanity of an author, upon the yellow leaflet which Mary held in her hand. She rose, took her seat at the head of the table, poured out tea for her colleagues, and gave her opinion upon the leaflet. So she had poured out tea, so she had criticized Mr. Clacton s leaflets a hundred times already; but now it seemed to her that she was doing it in a different spirit; she had enlisted in the army, and was a volunteer no longer. She had renounced something and was now how could she express it? not quite "in the running" for life. She had always known that Mr. Clacton and Mrs. Seal were not in the running, and across the gulf that separated them she had seen them in	Night And Day
Rats,	No speaker	"Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone,	the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was	clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I	turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the	littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in	he grunted and went on up again." "His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage." If there s anyone in this house "he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house,	I slipped into the inner room." "It was a queer little room, poorly furnished and with a number of big masks in the corner. On the table was his belated breakfast, and it was a confoundedly exasperating thing for me, Kemp, to have to sniff his coffee and stand watching while he came in and resumed his meal. And his table manners were irritating. Three doors opened into the little room, one going upstairs and one down, but they were all shut. I could not get out of the room while he was there; I could scarcely move because of his alertness, and there was a draught down my back. Twice I strangled a sneeze just in time." "The spectacular quality of my sensations was curious and novel, but for all that I was heartily tired and angry long before he had done his eating. But at last he made an end and putting his beggarly crockery on the black tin tray upon which he had had his teapot, and gathering all the crumbs up on the mustard stained cloth, he took the whole lot of things after him. His burden prevented his shutting the door behind him as he would have done; I never saw such a man for shutting doors and I followed him into a very dirty underground kitchen and scullery. I had the pleasure of seeing him begin to wash up, and then, finding no good in keeping down there, and the brick floor being cold on my feet, I returned upstairs and sat in his chair by the fire. It was burning low, and scarcely thinking, I put on a little coal. The noise of this brought him up at once, and he stood aglare. He peered about the room and was within an ace of touching me. Even after that examination, he scarcely seemed satisfied. He stopped in the doorway and took a final inspection before he went down." "I waited in the little parlour for an age, and at last he came up and opened the upstairs door. I just managed to get by him." "On the staircase he stopped suddenly, so that I very nearly blundered into him. He stood looking back right into my face and listening." I could have sworn, "he said. His long hairy hand pulled at his lower lip. His eye went up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went on up again." "His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage." If there s anyone in this house "he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone," said Kemp. "It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments." "I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback had been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person. Everything that could possibly be of service to me I collected in the clothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate selection. I found a handbag I thought a suitable possession, and some powder, rouge, and sticking-plaster." "I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that there was to show of me, in order to render myself visible, but the disadvantage of this lay in the fact that I should require turpentine and other appliances and a considerable amount of time before I could vanish again. Finally I chose a mask of the better type, slightly grotesque but not more so than many human beings, dark glasses, greyish whiskers, and a wig. I could find no underclothing, but that I could buy subsequently, and for the time I swathed myself in calico dominoes and some white cashmere scarfs. I could find no socks, but the hunchback s boots were rather a loose fit and sufficed. In a desk in the shop were three sovereigns and about thirty shillings worth of silver,	into him. He stood looking back right into my face and listening." I could have sworn, "he said. His long hairy hand pulled at his lower lip. His eye went up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went on up again." "His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage." If there s anyone in this house "he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little."<\|quote\|>Rats,</\|quote\|>"he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone," said Kemp. "It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments."	The Invisible Man
said the stranger.	No speaker	directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the	with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined	my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a	must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with	considered that I could not do better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Banker _does_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming in her way. "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?" Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. "A chit," said she. "Not twenty when she was married." "I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler," returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, "that I never was so astonished in my life!" It really did seem to	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_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming in her way. "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?" Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. "A chit," said she. "Not twenty when she was married." "I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler," returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, "that I never was so astonished in my life!" It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost extent of his capacity of being impressed. He looked at his informant for full a quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the surprise in his mind all the time. "I assure you, Mrs. Powler," he then said, much exhausted, "that the father's manner prepared me for a grim and stony maturity. I am obliged to you, of all things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. Many thanks. Good day!" He bowed himself out; and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in the window curtain, saw him languishing down the street on the shady side of the way, observed of all the town. "What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer?" she asked the light porter, when he came to take away. "Spends a deal of money on his dress, ma'am." "It must be admitted," said Mrs. Sparsit, "that it's very tasteful." "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "if that's worth the money." "Besides which, ma'am," resumed Bitzer, while he was polishing the table, "he looks to me as if he gamed." "It's immoral to game," said Mrs. Sparsit. "It's ridiculous, ma'am," said Bitzer, "because the chances are against the players." Whether it was that	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_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming in her way. "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?" Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. "A chit," said she. "Not twenty when she was married." "I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler," returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, "that I never was so astonished in my life!" It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost extent of his capacity of being impressed. He looked at his informant for full a quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the surprise in his mind all the time. "I assure you, Mrs. Powler," he then said, much exhausted, "that the father's manner prepared me for a grim and stony maturity. I am obliged to you, of all things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. Many thanks. Good day!" He bowed himself out; and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in the window curtain, saw him languishing down the street on the shady side of the way, observed of all the town. "What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer?" she asked the light porter, when he came to take away. "Spends a deal of money on his dress, ma'am." "It must be admitted," said Mrs. Sparsit, "that it's very tasteful." "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "if that's worth the money." "Besides which, ma'am," resumed Bitzer, while he was polishing the table, "he looks to me as if he gamed." "It's immoral to game," said Mrs. Sparsit. "It's ridiculous, ma'am," said Bitzer, "because the chances are against the players." Whether it was that the heat prevented Mrs. Sparsit from working, or whether it was that her hand was out, she did no work that night. She sat at the window, when the sun began to sink behind the smoke; she sat there, when the smoke was burning red, when the colour faded from it, when darkness seemed to rise slowly out of the ground, and creep upward, upward, up to the house-tops, up the church steeple, up to the summits of the factory chimneys, up to the sky. Without a candle in the room, Mrs. Sparsit sat at the window, with her hands before her, not thinking much of the sounds of evening; the whooping of boys, the barking of dogs, the rumbling of wheels, the steps and voices of passengers, the shrill street cries, the clogs upon the pavement when it was their hour for going by, the shutting-up of shop-shutters. Not until the light porter announced that her nocturnal sweetbread was ready, did Mrs. Sparsit arouse herself from her reverie, and convey her dense black eyebrows by that time creased with meditation, as if they needed ironing out-up-stairs. "O, you Fool!" said Mrs. Sparsit, when she was alone at her supper. Whom she meant, she did not say; but she could scarcely have meant the sweetbread. CHAPTER II MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE THE Gradgrind party wanted assistance in cutting the throats of the Graces. They went about recruiting; and where could they enlist recruits more hopefully, than among the fine gentlemen who, having found out everything to be worth nothing, were equally ready for anything? Moreover, the healthy spirits who had mounted to this sublime height were attractive to many of the Gradgrind school. They liked fine gentlemen; they pretended that they did not, but they did. They became exhausted in imitation of them; and they yaw-yawed in their speech like them; and they served out, with an enervated air, the little mouldy rations of political economy, on which they regaled their disciples. There never before was seen on earth such a wonderful hybrid race as was thus produced. Among the fine gentlemen not regularly belonging to the Gradgrind school, there was one of a good family and a better appearance, with a happy turn of humour which had told immensely with the House of Commons on the occasion of his entertaining it with his (and the Board of Directors) view of	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_ live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do." The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit's thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming in her way. "Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be," said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: "therefore I may observe that my letter here it is is from the member for this place Gradgrind whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London." Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. "Thousand thanks,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"Of course you know the Banker well?" "Yes, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. "In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years." "Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind's daughter?" "Yes," said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, "he had that honour." "The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?" "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "_Is_ she?" "Excuse my impertinent curiosity," pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit's eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, "but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty?" Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. "A chit," said she. "Not twenty when she was married." "I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler," returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, "that I never was so astonished in my life!" It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost extent of his capacity of being impressed. He looked at his informant for full a quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the surprise in his mind all the time. "I assure you, Mrs. Powler," he then said, much exhausted, "that the father's manner prepared me for a grim and stony maturity. I am obliged to you, of all things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. Many thanks. Good day!" He bowed himself out; and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in the window curtain, saw him languishing down the street on the shady side of the way, observed of all the town. "What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer?" she asked the light porter, when he came to take away. "Spends a deal of money on his dress, ma'am." "It must be admitted," said Mrs. Sparsit, "that it's very tasteful." "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "if that's worth the money." "Besides which, ma'am," resumed Bitzer, while he was polishing the table, "he looks to me as if he gamed." "It's immoral to game," said Mrs. Sparsit. "It's	Hard Times
"He doesn't add much to the gayety."	Jake Barnes	I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's	Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly.	"I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave	in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd	come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at	from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The	and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past	illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!"<\|quote\|>"He doesn't add much to the gayety."</\|quote\|>"He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on."	The Sun Also Rises
"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"	John Andrew	got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions,	time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye	"Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their	walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest	muffins one of the few things that make the English winter endurable." "Muffins stand for so much," said Jenny. She ate heartily; often she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting crumbs that had become embedded there and melted butter from the muffin. One drop of butter fell on her chin and glittered there unobserved except by Tony. It was a relief to him when John Andrew was brought in. "Come and be introduced to Princess Abdul Akbar." John Andrew had never before seen a Princess; he gazed at her, fascinated. "Aren't you going to give me a kiss?" He walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at	the fire, and if you're nice to me I'll purr, and if you're cruel I shall pretend not to notice--just like a cat... Shall I purr, Teddy?" "Er... yes... do, please, if that's what you like doing." "Englishmen are so gentle and considerate. It's wonderful to be back among them... mine own people. Sometimes when I look back at my life, especially at times like this, among lovely old English things and kind people, I think the whole thing must be a frightful nightmare... then I remember my _scars_..." "Brenda tells me you've taken one of the flats in the same house as hers. They must be very convenient." "How English you are, Teddy--so shy of talking about personal things, intimate things... I like you for that, you know. I love everything that's solid and homely and _good_ after... after all I've been through." "You're not studying economics too, are you, like Brenda?" "No; is Brenda? She never told me. What a wonderful person she is. When _does_ she find the time?" "Ah, here comes tea at last," said Tony. "I hope you allow yourself to eat muffins. So many of our guests nowadays are on a diet. I think muffins one of the few things that make the English winter endurable." "Muffins stand for so much," said Jenny. She ate heartily; often she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting crumbs that had become embedded there and melted butter from the muffin. One drop of butter fell on her chin and glittered there unobserved except by Tony. It was a relief to him when John Andrew was brought in. "Come and be introduced to Princess Abdul Akbar." John Andrew had never before seen a Princess; he gazed at her, fascinated. "Aren't you going to give me a kiss?" He walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on to their hind legs and salute--" "Oh, but they _shouldn't_," said John. "It's _very_ bad horsemanship indeed. Ben says so." "They're the most wonderful horsemen in the world. Everyone knows that." "Oh, no, they can't be, if they do _that_. It's one of the _worst_ things. Were they natives?" "Yes, of course." "Ben says natives aren't humans at all really." "Ah, but he's thinking of Negroes, I expect. These are pure Semitic type." "What's that?" "The same as Jews." "Ben says Jews are worse than natives." "Oh dear, what a very severe boy you are. I was like that once. Life teaches one to be tolerant." "It hasn't taught Ben," said John. "When's mummy coming? I thought she'd be here, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a	little figure huddled herself in the rugs until she reached the gates. Then she opened her bag, tucked up her veil, shook out her powder puff and put her face to rights. She licked the rouge from her finger with a sharp red tongue. Tony was in the smoking-room when she was announced; the library was now too noisy during the daytime, for there were men at work on the walls of the morning-room next door, tearing down the plaster tracery. "Princess Abdul Akbar." He rose to greet her. She was preceded by a heavy odour of musk. "Oh, Mr Last," she said, "what a sweet old place this is." "I'm afraid it's been restored a great deal," said Tony. "Ah, but its _atmosphere_. I always think that's what counts in a house. Such dignity, and repose. But of course you're used to it. When you've been very unhappy as I have, you appreciate these things." Tony said, "I'm afraid Brenda hasn't arrived yet. She's coming by car with Lady Cockpurse." "Brenda's been _such_ a friend to me." The Princess took off her furs and sat down on the stool before the fire, looking up at Tony. "D'you mind if I take off my hat?" "No, no... of course." She threw it on to the sofa and shook out her hair, which was dead black and curled. "D'you know, Mr Last, I'm going to call you Teddy right away. You don't think that very fresh of me? And you must call me Jenny. "Princess" is so formal, isn't it, and suggests tight trousers and gold braid... Of course" ," she went on, stretching out her hands to the fire and letting her hair fall forwards a little across her face, "my husband was not called "Prince" in Morocco; his title was Moulay--but there's no proper equivalent for a woman, so I've always called myself Princess in Europe... Moulay is _far_ higher really... my husband was a descendant of the Prophet. Are you interested in the East?" "No... yes. I mean I know very little about it." "It has an uncanny fascination for me. You must go there, Teddy. I know you'd like it. I've been saying the same to Brenda." "I expect you'd like to see your room," said Tony. "They'll bring tea soon." "No, I'll stay here. I like just to curl up like a cat in front of the fire, and if you're nice to me I'll purr, and if you're cruel I shall pretend not to notice--just like a cat... Shall I purr, Teddy?" "Er... yes... do, please, if that's what you like doing." "Englishmen are so gentle and considerate. It's wonderful to be back among them... mine own people. Sometimes when I look back at my life, especially at times like this, among lovely old English things and kind people, I think the whole thing must be a frightful nightmare... then I remember my _scars_..." "Brenda tells me you've taken one of the flats in the same house as hers. They must be very convenient." "How English you are, Teddy--so shy of talking about personal things, intimate things... I like you for that, you know. I love everything that's solid and homely and _good_ after... after all I've been through." "You're not studying economics too, are you, like Brenda?" "No; is Brenda? She never told me. What a wonderful person she is. When _does_ she find the time?" "Ah, here comes tea at last," said Tony. "I hope you allow yourself to eat muffins. So many of our guests nowadays are on a diet. I think muffins one of the few things that make the English winter endurable." "Muffins stand for so much," said Jenny. She ate heartily; often she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting crumbs that had become embedded there and melted butter from the muffin. One drop of butter fell on her chin and glittered there unobserved except by Tony. It was a relief to him when John Andrew was brought in. "Come and be introduced to Princess Abdul Akbar." John Andrew had never before seen a Princess; he gazed at her, fascinated. "Aren't you going to give me a kiss?" He walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on to their hind legs and salute--" "Oh, but they _shouldn't_," said John. "It's _very_ bad horsemanship indeed. Ben says so." "They're the most wonderful horsemen in the world. Everyone knows that." "Oh, no, they can't be, if they do _that_. It's one of the _worst_ things. Were they natives?" "Yes, of course." "Ben says natives aren't humans at all really." "Ah, but he's thinking of Negroes, I expect. These are pure Semitic type." "What's that?" "The same as Jews." "Ben says Jews are worse than natives." "Oh dear, what a very severe boy you are. I was like that once. Life teaches one to be tolerant." "It hasn't taught Ben," said John. "When's mummy coming? I thought she'd be here, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a dull world if we all thought alike," she said. "She's more beautiful than Miss Tendril, even. I think she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen... D'you think she'd like to watch me have my bath?" Downstairs, Jenny said, "What a heavenly child... I love children. That has been my great tragedy. It was when he found I couldn't have children that the Moulay first showed the Other Side of his Nature. It wasn't my fault... you see my womb is out of place... I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a _waste of time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all	little about it." "It has an uncanny fascination for me. You must go there, Teddy. I know you'd like it. I've been saying the same to Brenda." "I expect you'd like to see your room," said Tony. "They'll bring tea soon." "No, I'll stay here. I like just to curl up like a cat in front of the fire, and if you're nice to me I'll purr, and if you're cruel I shall pretend not to notice--just like a cat... Shall I purr, Teddy?" "Er... yes... do, please, if that's what you like doing." "Englishmen are so gentle and considerate. It's wonderful to be back among them... mine own people. Sometimes when I look back at my life, especially at times like this, among lovely old English things and kind people, I think the whole thing must be a frightful nightmare... then I remember my _scars_..." "Brenda tells me you've taken one of the flats in the same house as hers. They must be very convenient." "How English you are, Teddy--so shy of talking about personal things, intimate things... I like you for that, you know. I love everything that's solid and homely and _good_ after... after all I've been through." "You're not studying economics too, are you, like Brenda?" "No; is Brenda? She never told me. What a wonderful person she is. When _does_ she find the time?" "Ah, here comes tea at last," said Tony. "I hope you allow yourself to eat muffins. So many of our guests nowadays are on a diet. I think muffins one of the few things that make the English winter endurable." "Muffins stand for so much," said Jenny. She ate heartily; often she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting crumbs that had become embedded there and melted butter from the muffin. One drop of butter fell on her chin and glittered there unobserved except by Tony. It was a relief to him when John Andrew was brought in. "Come and be introduced to Princess Abdul Akbar." John Andrew had never before seen a Princess; he gazed at her, fascinated. "Aren't you going to give me a kiss?" He walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth. "Oh," he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then, "What a beautiful smell." "It's my last link with the East," she said. "You've got butter on your chin." She reached for her bag, laughing. "Why, so I have. Teddy, you _might_ have told me." "Why do you call daddy Teddy?" "Because I hope we are going to be great friends." "What a funny reason." John stayed with them for an hour, and all the time watched, fascinated. "Have you got a crown?" he asked.<\|quote\|>"How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?"</\|quote\|>She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. "That is my only crown... now," she said. She told him about the horses she used to have--glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths. "On the Moulay's birthday--" "What's the Moulay?" "A beautiful and a very bad man," she said gravely, "and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy." "What's a canopy?" "Like a tent," she said more sharply, and then, resuming her soft voice, "and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on to their hind legs and salute--" "Oh, but they _shouldn't_," said John. "It's _very_ bad horsemanship indeed. Ben says so." "They're the most wonderful horsemen in the world. Everyone knows that." "Oh, no, they can't be, if they do _that_. It's one of the _worst_ things. Were they natives?" "Yes, of course." "Ben says natives aren't humans at all really." "Ah, but he's thinking of Negroes, I expect. These are pure Semitic type." "What's that?" "The same as Jews." "Ben says Jews are worse than natives." "Oh dear, what a very severe boy you are. I was like that once. Life teaches one to be tolerant." "It hasn't taught Ben," said John. "When's mummy coming? I thought she'd be here, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a dull world if we all thought alike," she said. "She's more beautiful than Miss Tendril, even. I think she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen... D'you think she'd like to watch me have my bath?" Downstairs, Jenny said, "What a heavenly child... I love children. That has been my great tragedy. It was when he found I couldn't have children that the Moulay first showed the Other Side of his Nature. It wasn't my fault... you see my womb is out of place... I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a _waste of time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say	A Handful Of Dust
There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.	No speaker	like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said	which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land,	course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose	try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited	Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there	church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite indifferent to their fate; and this indifference seemed so great that some of the thoughtless children began to laugh and talk aloud. For some time this was passed over unnoticed; but at last one of the guards, a tall Maori, whose face was so lined in curves that it seemed to be absolutely blue, walked slowly over to the merry group, spear in hand, to give one child a poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give	only response, and he lay thinking of home and of his bedroom all those thousand miles away. And as he thought of Bristol, a curious feeling of thankfulness came over him that his mother was in ignorance of the fate that had befallen her son. "What would she say--what would she think, if she knew that I was lying here on the ground, a prisoner, and wounded--here at the mercy of a set of savages--what would she say?" A short time before Don had been thinking that fate had done its worst for him, and that his position could not possibly have been more grave. But he thought now that it might have been far worse, for his mother was spared his horror. And then as he lay helpless there, and in pain, with his companion badly hurt, and the low moan of some wounded savage now and then making him shudder, the scene of the desperate fight seemed to come back, and he felt feverish and wild. But after a time that passed off, and the pain and chill troubled him, but only to pass off as well, and be succeeded by a drowsy sensation. And then as he lay there, the words of the old, old prayers he had repeated at his mother's knee rose to his lips, and he was repeating them as sleep fell upon his weary eyes; and the agony and horrors of that terrible time were as nothing to him then. The Adventures of Don Lavington--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER FORTY ONE. PRISONERS OF WAR. "I wish our old ship was here, and I was at one of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside." "It is very, very horrible, Jem." "Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was we all as quiet and comf'table as could be--taking our warm baths. I say, shouldn't I like one now! I'm that stiff and sore I can hardly move." "Yes, it would be a comfort, Jem." "Yes, and as I was saying, here was we going on as quiet as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose they calls this a village; I don't, for there arn't no church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite indifferent to their fate; and this indifference seemed so great that some of the thoughtless children began to laugh and talk aloud. For some time this was passed over unnoticed; but at last one of the guards, a tall Maori, whose face was so lined in curves that it seemed to be absolutely blue, walked slowly over to the merry group, spear in hand, to give one child a poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give a threatening gesture with his spear. Just at that moment, however, a loud shouting and singing arose, which took the man's attention, and he and his fellows mounted on a stage at one corner of the _pah_ to stand leaning upon their spears, gazing down at the festivities being carried on at the edge of the sands below. For some time past it had seemed to Don that the plundering party had fired the village, for a tall column of smoke had risen up, and this had died down and risen again as combustible matter had caught. The fire was too far below to be seen, but the smoke rose in clouds as the work of destruction seemed to be going on. The singing and shouting increased, and once or twice the other prisoners appeared to take an excited interest in the sounds that came up to them; but they only sank directly after into a state of moody apathy, letting their chins go down upon their chests, and many of them dropping off to sleep. The noise and shouting had been going on for some time, and then ceased, to be succeeded by a low, busy murmur, as of a vast swarm of bees; and now, after sitting very silent and thoughtful, watching the faint smoke which came up from the fire, and eagerly drinking in the various sounds, Don turned his eyes in a curiously furtive manner to steal a look at Jem. He did not move his head, but proceeded with the greatest caution, so as to try and read his companion's countenance, when, to his surprise, he found that Jem was stealing a look at him, and both, as it were, snatched their eyes away, and began looking at the prisoners. But at that time it was as if the eyes of both were filled with some strange attractive force, which made them turn and gaze in a peculiarly hard, wild way. Don seemed to be reading Jem's thoughts as his sight plunged deeply into the eyes of his companion, and as he gazed, he shuddered, and tried to look elsewhere. But he could not look elsewhere, only hard at Jem, who also shuddered, and looked shame-faced and horrified. For they were reading each other's thoughts only too correctly, and the effect of that perusal was to make big drops of perspiration roll down Jem's face,	as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose they calls this a village; I don't, for there arn't no church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver.<\|quote\|>There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water.</\|quote\|>"That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being secured to trees growing close down to the shore, and the party busy there a short time before absent. "Coming to fetch us now, I suppose, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Wonder whether they've got your pistol and cutlash." But no one but the guards came in sight, and a couple of weary hours passed, during which the other prisoners sat crouched together, talking in a low tone, apparently quite indifferent to their fate; and this indifference seemed so great that some of the thoughtless children began to laugh and talk aloud. For some time this was passed over unnoticed; but at last one of the guards, a tall Maori, whose face was so lined in curves that it seemed to be absolutely blue, walked slowly over to the merry group, spear in hand, to give one child a poke with the butt, another a sharp blow over the head, evidently with the intention of producing silence; but in the case of the younger children his movements had the opposite effect, and this roused the ire of some of the women, who spoke out angrily enough to make the tall, blue-faced savage give a threatening gesture with his spear. Just at that moment, however, a loud shouting and singing arose, which took the man's attention, and he and his fellows mounted on a stage at one corner of the _pah_ to stand leaning upon their spears, gazing down at the festivities being carried on at the edge of the sands below. For some time past it had seemed to Don that the plundering party had fired the village, for a tall column	Don Lavington
"'Tis too much!"	Jane	happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too	emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve	the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she	they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but	letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. "And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious	and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. "And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her	Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?" But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. "And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself. It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed how really happy he was. Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter and said, "Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman." Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness. "You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your income." "I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters, would be unpardonable in _me_." "Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife, "what are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a-year, and very likely more." Then addressing her daughter, "Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so happy! I am sure I sha'nt get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that ever was seen!" Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense. Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter. Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor	of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.<\|quote\|>"'Tis too much!"</\|quote\|>she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation. "And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!" In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose. "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door. "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say." He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she	Pride And Prejudice
"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."	Ronny Heaslop	words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela,	God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause	Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the	inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy	being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was	a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash.	On seeing the City Magistrate alone with a maiden at twilight, he had borne down on them with hospitable intent. He had a new little car, and wished to place it at their disposal; the City Magistrate would decide whether the offer was acceptable. Ronny was by this time rather ashamed of his curtness to Aziz and Godbole, and here was an opportunity of showing that he could treat Indians with consideration when they deserved it. So he said to Adela, with the same sad friendliness that he had employed when discussing the bird, "Would half an hour's spin entertain you at all?" "Oughtn't we to get back to the bungalow." "Why?" He gazed at her. "I think perhaps I ought to see your mother and discuss future plans." "That's as you like, but there's no hurry, is there?" "Let me take you to the bungalow, and first the little spin," cried the old man, and hastened to the car. "He may show you some aspect of the country I can't, and he's a real loyalist. I thought you might care for a bit of a change." Determined to give him no more trouble, she agreed, but her desire to see India had suddenly decreased. There had been a factitious element in it. How should they seat themselves in the car? The elegant grandson had to be left behind. The Nawab Bahadur got up in front, for he had no intention of neighbouring an English girl. "Despite my advanced years, I am learning to drive," he said. "Man can learn everything if he will but try." And foreseeing a further difficulty, he added, "I do not do the actual steering. I sit and ask my chauffeur questions, and thus learn the reason for everything that is done before I do it myself. By this method serious and I may say ludicrous accidents, such as befell one of my compatriots during that delightful reception at the English Club, are avoided. Our good Panna Lal! I hope, sahib, that great damage was not done to your flowers. Let us have our little spin down the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!" He fell asleep. Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed along a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash. Harris, well done!" "A smash, sahib, that would not have taken place had he obeyed and taken us Gangavati side, instead of Marabar." "My fault that. I told him to come this way because the road's better. Mr. Lesley has made it pukka right up to the hills." "Ah, now I begin to understand." Seeming to pull himself together, he apologized slowly and elaborately for the accident. Ronny murmured, "Not at all," but apologies were his due, and should have started sooner: because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab Bahadur had not come out very well. At that moment a large car approached from the opposite direction. Ronny advanced a few steps down the road, and with authority in his voice and gesture stopped it. It bore the inscription "Mudkul State" across its bonnet. All friskiness and friendliness, Miss Derek sat inside. "Mr. Heaslop, Miss Quested, what are you holding up an innocent female for?" "We've had a breakdown." "But how putrid!" "We ran into a hyena!" "How absolutely rotten!" "Can you give us a lift?" "Yes, indeed." "Take me too," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Heh, what about me?" cried Mr. Harris. "Now what's all this? I'm not an omnibus," said Miss Derek with decision. "I've a harmonium and two dogs in here with me as it is. I'll take three of you if one'll sit in front and nurse a pug. No more." "I will sit in front," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Then hop in: I've no notion who you are." "Heh no, what about my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night." Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than this." "Nussu will bring you out some suitable dinner upon a bicycle," said the Nawab Bahadur, who had regained his usual dignity. "I shall despatch him with all possible speed. Meanwhile, repair my car." They sped off, and Mr. Harris, after a reproachful glance, squatted down	reception at the English Club, are avoided. Our good Panna Lal! I hope, sahib, that great damage was not done to your flowers. Let us have our little spin down the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!" He fell asleep. Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed along a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting. "We had some luck butting that tree." "All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again.<\|quote\|>"Wasn't the bridge. We skidded."</\|quote\|>"We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash. Harris, well done!" "A smash, sahib, that would not have taken place had he obeyed and taken us Gangavati side, instead of Marabar." "My fault that. I told him to come this way because the road's better. Mr. Lesley has made it pukka right up to the hills." "Ah, now I begin to understand." Seeming to pull himself together, he apologized slowly and elaborately for the accident. Ronny murmured, "Not at all," but apologies were his due, and should have started sooner: because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab Bahadur had not come out very well. At that moment a large car approached from the opposite direction. Ronny	A Passage To India
"My dear Lucia--"	Miss Bartlett	take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I	in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how	prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think	to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or	without a slight twitching of the lips. "And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?" "I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?" "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that." "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed	acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one--of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult--at least, I find it difficult--to understand people who speak the truth." Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice." "I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say I hope--you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people's backs up. He has no tact and no manners--I don't mean by that that he has bad manners--and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it." "Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that he is a Socialist?" Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips. "And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?" "I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?" "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that." "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister's health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else. "But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English." "Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed." "Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner." "I think he was meaning to be kind." "Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett. "Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I	not do. Lucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow. The father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow, but by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something. She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains--curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by 'Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South. And even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy? Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr. Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. "We are most grateful to you," she was saying. "The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais quart d'heure." He expressed his regret. "Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?" "Emerson." "Is he a friend of yours?" "We are friendly--as one is in pensions." "Then I will say no more." He pressed her very slightly, and she said more. "I am, as it were," she concluded, "the chaperon of my young cousin, Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best." "You acted very naturally," said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: "All the same, I don't think much harm would have come of accepting." "No harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation." "He is rather a peculiar man." Again he hesitated, and then said gently: "I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one--of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult--at least, I find it difficult--to understand people who speak the truth." Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice." "I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say I hope--you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people's backs up. He has no tact and no manners--I don't mean by that that he has bad manners--and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it." "Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that he is a Socialist?" Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips. "And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?" "I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?" "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that." "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister's health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else. "But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English." "Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed." "Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner." "I think he was meaning to be kind." "Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett. "Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin's account." "Of course," said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl. Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it. "About old Mr. Emerson--I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?" "Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. "Are not beauty and delicacy the same?" "So one would have thought," said the other helplessly. "But things are so difficult, I sometimes think." She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant. "Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about the rooms. I'm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased." "Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be." Miss Bartlett was silent. "I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference." Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: "My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?" She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message. "Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events." Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously: "Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead."	though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. "We are most grateful to you," she was saying. "The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais quart d'heure." He expressed his regret. "Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?" "Emerson." "Is he a friend of yours?" "We are friendly--as one is in pensions." "Then I will say no more." He pressed her very slightly, and she said more. "I am, as it were," she concluded, "the chaperon of my young cousin, Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best." "You acted very naturally," said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: "All the same, I don't think much harm would have come of accepting." "No harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation." "He is rather a peculiar man." Again he hesitated, and then said gently: "I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one--of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult--at least, I find it difficult--to understand people who speak the truth." Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice." "I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say I hope--you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people's backs up. He has no tact and no manners--I don't mean by that that he has bad manners--and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it." "Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that he is a Socialist?" Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips. "And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?" "I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?" "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that." "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman."<\|quote\|>"My dear Lucia--"</\|quote\|>"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about	A Room With A View
"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"	Jem Wimble	ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at	another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If	to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course	of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then	pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in. "Men--boat," he said, pointing, and then clapping his hand to his ear as a distant hail came like a whisper up the gully, which was almost at right angles to the beach. "He wants us to hide here, Jem," said Don; and he went up to the entrance and looked in. A hot, steamy breath of air came like a puff into his face, and a strange low moaning noise fell upon his ear, followed by a faint whistle, that was strongly suggestive of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then dropping rapidly down from point to point till he was at the bottom, Jem peering over the edge of the shelf, and watching him till he had disappeared. "Arn't gone to tell them where we are, have he, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. How suspicious you are!" "Ah, so'll you be when you get as old as I am," said Jem, creeping back to where Don was standing, looking inward. "Well, what sort of a place is it, Mas' Don?" "I can't see in far, but the cavern seems to go right in, like a long crooked passage." "Crooked enough, and	to graze. Why, you wouldn't find nothing but the tips of his ears to-morrow morning." Another hail rang out, and was answered in two places. "I say, Mas' Don, they're hunting for us, and we shall have to run." He made signs to the chief indicative of a desire to run, but Ngati shook his head, and pointed onward. They followed on, listening to the shouts, which came nearer, till Ngati suddenly took a sharp turn round a great buttress of lava, and entered a wild, narrow, forbidding-looking chasm, where on either side the black, jagged masses of rock were piled up several hundred feet, and made glorious by streams which coursed among the delicately green ferns. "Look's damp," said Jem, as Ngati led them on for about fifty yards, and then began to climb, his companions following him, till he reached a shelf about a hundred feet up, and beckoned to them to come. "Does he think this here's the rigging of a ship, and want us to set sail?" grumbled Jem. "Here, I say, what's the good of our coming there?" The chief stamped his foot, and made an imperious gesture, which brought them to his side. He pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in. "Men--boat," he said, pointing, and then clapping his hand to his ear as a distant hail came like a whisper up the gully, which was almost at right angles to the beach. "He wants us to hide here, Jem," said Don; and he went up to the entrance and looked in. A hot, steamy breath of air came like a puff into his face, and a strange low moaning noise fell upon his ear, followed by a faint whistle, that was strongly suggestive of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then dropping rapidly down from point to point till he was at the bottom, Jem peering over the edge of the shelf, and watching him till he had disappeared. "Arn't gone to tell them where we are, have he, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. How suspicious you are!" "Ah, so'll you be when you get as old as I am," said Jem, creeping back to where Don was standing, looking inward. "Well, what sort of a place is it, Mas' Don?" "I can't see in far, but the cavern seems to go right in, like a long crooked passage." "Crooked enough, and long enough," grumbled Jem. "Hark!" Don listened, and heard a faint hail. "They're coming along searching for us, I suppose." "I didn't mean that sound; I meant this. There, listen again." Don took a step into the cave, but went no farther, for Jem gripped his arm. "Take care, my lad. 'Tarn't safe. Hear that noise?" "Yes; it is like some animal breathing hard." "And we've got no pistols nor cutlashes. It's a lion, I know." "There are no lions here, Jem." "Arn't there? Then it's a tiger. I know un. I've seen 'em. Hark!" "But there are no tigers, nor any other fierce beasts here, Jem." "Now, how can you be so obstinate, Mas' Don, when you can hear 'em whistling, and sighing and breathing hard right in yonder. No, no, not a step farther do you go." "Don't be so foolish, Jem." "'Tarn't foolish, Mas' Don; and look here: I'm going to take advantage of them being asleep to put on my proper costoom, and if you'll take my advice, you'll do just the same." Don hesitated, but Jem took advantage of a handy seat-like piece of rock, and altered his dress rapidly, an example that, after a	though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death. "Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, `It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?" "Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper. "Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup." "Be quiet, and follow. Hist! Hark!" Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint hail, followed by another nearer, which seemed to be in answer. "They're arter us, sir, and if we're to be ketched I don't mean to be ketched like this." "What are you going to do, Jem?" "Do?" said Jem, unrolling his bundled-up clothes, and preparing to sit down, "make myself look like an ornery Chrishtun." "Don't sit down there, Jem!" cried Don, as Ngati gave a warning cry at the same moment, and started back. But they were too late, for Jem had chosen a delicately green mossy and ferny patch, and plumped himself down, to utter a cry of horror, and snatch at the extended hands. For the green ferny patch was a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow was settling as he was dragged out. "Fah!" ejaculated Jem, pinching his nose. "Here, I've had 'most enough o' this place. Nice sort o' spot this would be to turn a donkey out to graze. Why, you wouldn't find nothing but the tips of his ears to-morrow morning." Another hail rang out, and was answered in two places. "I say, Mas' Don, they're hunting for us, and we shall have to run." He made signs to the chief indicative of a desire to run, but Ngati shook his head, and pointed onward. They followed on, listening to the shouts, which came nearer, till Ngati suddenly took a sharp turn round a great buttress of lava, and entered a wild, narrow, forbidding-looking chasm, where on either side the black, jagged masses of rock were piled up several hundred feet, and made glorious by streams which coursed among the delicately green ferns. "Look's damp," said Jem, as Ngati led them on for about fifty yards, and then began to climb, his companions following him, till he reached a shelf about a hundred feet up, and beckoned to them to come. "Does he think this here's the rigging of a ship, and want us to set sail?" grumbled Jem. "Here, I say, what's the good of our coming there?" The chief stamped his foot, and made an imperious gesture, which brought them to his side. He pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in. "Men--boat," he said, pointing, and then clapping his hand to his ear as a distant hail came like a whisper up the gully, which was almost at right angles to the beach. "He wants us to hide here, Jem," said Don; and he went up to the entrance and looked in. A hot, steamy breath of air came like a puff into his face, and a strange low moaning noise fell upon his ear, followed by a faint whistle, that was strongly suggestive of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then dropping rapidly down from point to point till he was at the bottom, Jem peering over the edge of the shelf, and watching him till he had disappeared. "Arn't gone to tell them where we are, have he, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. How suspicious you are!" "Ah, so'll you be when you get as old as I am," said Jem, creeping back to where Don was standing, looking inward. "Well, what sort of a place is it, Mas' Don?" "I can't see in far, but the cavern seems to go right in, like a long crooked passage." "Crooked enough, and long enough," grumbled Jem. "Hark!" Don listened, and heard a faint hail. "They're coming along searching for us, I suppose." "I didn't mean that sound; I meant this. There, listen again." Don took a step into the cave, but went no farther, for Jem gripped his arm. "Take care, my lad. 'Tarn't safe. Hear that noise?" "Yes; it is like some animal breathing hard." "And we've got no pistols nor cutlashes. It's a lion, I know." "There are no lions here, Jem." "Arn't there? Then it's a tiger. I know un. I've seen 'em. Hark!" "But there are no tigers, nor any other fierce beasts here, Jem." "Now, how can you be so obstinate, Mas' Don, when you can hear 'em whistling, and sighing and breathing hard right in yonder. No, no, not a step farther do you go." "Don't be so foolish, Jem." "'Tarn't foolish, Mas' Don; and look here: I'm going to take advantage of them being asleep to put on my proper costoom, and if you'll take my advice, you'll do just the same." Don hesitated, but Jem took advantage of a handy seat-like piece of rock, and altered his dress rapidly, an example that, after a moment or two of hesitation, Don followed. "Dry as a bone," said Jem. "Come, that's better. I feels like a human being now. Just before I felt like a chap outside one of the shows at our fair." He doubled up the blanket he had been wearing, and threw it over his arm; while Don folded his, and laid it down, so that he could peer over the edge of the shelf, and command the entrance to the ravine. But all was perfectly silent and deserted, and, after waiting some time, he rose, and went a little way inside the cavern. "Don't! Don't be so precious rash, Mas' Don," cried Jem pettishly, as, urged on by his curiosity, Don went slowly, step by step, toward what seemed to be a dark blue veil of mist, which shut off farther view into the cave. "I don't think there's anything to mind, or they wouldn't have told us to hide here." "But you don't know, my lad. There may be dangerous wild critters in there as you never heard tell on. Graffems, and dragons, and beasts with stings in their tails--cockatoos." "Nonsense! Cockatrices," said Don laughing. "Well, it's all the same. Now, do be advised, Mas' Don, and stop here." "But I want to know what it's like farther in." Don went slowly forward into the dim mist, and Jem followed, murmuring bitterly at his being so rash. "Mind!" he cried suddenly, as a louder whistle than ordinary came from the depths of the cave, and the sound was so weird and strange that Don stopped short. The noise was not repeated, but the peculiar hissing went on, and, as if from a great distance, there came gurglings and rushing sounds, as if from water. "I know we shall get in somewhere, and not get out again, Mas' Don. There now, hark at that!" "It's only hot water, the same as we heard gurgling in our bath," said Don, still progressing. "Well, suppose it is. The more reason for your not going. P'r'aps this is where it comes from first, and nice place it must be where all that water's made hot. Let's go back, and wait close at the front." "No; let's go a little farther, Jem." "Why, I'm so hot now, my lad, I feel as if I was being steamed like a tater. Here, let's get back, and--" "Hist!"	a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow was settling as he was dragged out. "Fah!" ejaculated Jem, pinching his nose. "Here, I've had 'most enough o' this place. Nice sort o' spot this would be to turn a donkey out to graze. Why, you wouldn't find nothing but the tips of his ears to-morrow morning." Another hail rang out, and was answered in two places. "I say, Mas' Don, they're hunting for us, and we shall have to run." He made signs to the chief indicative of a desire to run, but Ngati shook his head, and pointed onward. They followed on, listening to the shouts, which came nearer, till Ngati suddenly took a sharp turn round a great buttress of lava, and entered a wild, narrow, forbidding-looking chasm, where on either side the black, jagged masses of rock were piled up several hundred feet, and made glorious by streams which coursed among the delicately green ferns. "Look's damp," said Jem, as Ngati led them on for about fifty yards, and then began to climb, his companions following him, till he reached a shelf about a hundred feet up, and beckoned to them to come. "Does he think this here's the rigging of a ship, and want us to set sail?" grumbled Jem. "Here, I say, what's the good of our coming there?" The chief stamped his foot, and made an imperious gesture, which brought them to his side. He pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in. "Men--boat," he said, pointing, and then clapping his hand to his ear as a distant hail came like a whisper up the gully, which was almost at right angles to the beach. "He wants us to hide here, Jem," said Don; and he went up to the entrance and looked in. A hot, steamy breath of air came like a puff into his face, and a strange low moaning noise fell upon his ear, followed by a faint whistle, that was strongly suggestive of some one being already in hiding. "I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?" "We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash." "But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?" "We must trust our hosts, Jem," replied Don. "They have behaved very well to us so far." There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.<\|quote\|>"I don't know but what we might walk straight away, Mas' Don,"</\|quote\|>he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. "If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they'd say we was savages, and take no notice." "Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don't be obstinate; I'm going on." "Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o' course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don't like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!" That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then dropping rapidly down from point to point till he was at the bottom, Jem peering over the edge of the shelf, and watching him till he had disappeared. "Arn't gone to tell them where we are, have he, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. How suspicious you are!" "Ah, so'll you be when you get as old as I am," said Jem, creeping back to where Don was standing, looking inward. "Well, what sort of a place is it, Mas' Don?" "I can't see in far, but the cavern seems to go right in, like a long crooked passage." "Crooked enough, and long enough," grumbled Jem. "Hark!" Don listened, and heard a faint hail. "They're coming along searching for us, I suppose." "I didn't mean that sound; I meant this. There, listen again." Don took a step into the cave, but went no farther, for Jem gripped his arm. "Take care, my lad. 'Tarn't safe. Hear that noise?" "Yes; it is like some animal breathing hard." "And we've got no pistols nor cutlashes. It's a lion, I know." "There are no lions here, Jem." "Arn't there? Then it's a tiger. I know un. I've seen 'em. Hark!" "But there are no tigers, nor any other fierce beasts here, Jem." "Now, how can you be so obstinate, Mas' Don, when you can hear 'em whistling, and sighing and breathing hard right in yonder. No, no, not a step farther do you go." "Don't be so foolish, Jem." "'Tarn't foolish, Mas' Don; and look here: I'm going to take advantage of them being asleep to put on my proper costoom, and if you'll take my advice, you'll do just the same." Don hesitated, but Jem took advantage of a handy seat-like piece of rock, and altered his dress rapidly, an example that, after a moment or two of hesitation, Don followed. "Dry as a bone," said Jem. "Come, that's better. I feels like a human being now. Just before I felt like a chap outside one of the shows at our fair." He doubled up the blanket he had been wearing, and threw it over his arm; while Don folded his, and laid it down, so that he could peer over the edge of the shelf, and command the entrance to the ravine. But all was perfectly silent and deserted, and, after waiting some time, he rose, and went a little way inside the cavern. "Don't! Don't be so precious rash, Mas' Don," cried Jem pettishly, as, urged on by his curiosity, Don went slowly, step by step, toward what seemed to be a dark blue veil of mist, which shut off farther view into the cave. "I don't think there's anything to mind, or they wouldn't have told us to hide here." "But you don't know, my lad. There may be dangerous wild critters in there as you never heard tell	Don Lavington
"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"	Mr. Losberne	colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at	particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles,	had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage;	proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into	shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of	no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me." "She shall," said Mrs. Maylie. "There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother," said the young man. "Not coldly," rejoined the old lady; "far from it." "How then?" urged the young man. "She has formed no other attachment?" "No, indeed," replied his mother; "you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say," resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, "is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic." "What do you mean?" "That I leave you to discover," replied Mrs. Maylie. "I must go back to her. God bless you!" "I shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, "No, no"; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are. Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at	Above all, I think" said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son's face, "that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does so." "Mother," said the young man, impatiently, "he would be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted thus." "You think so now, Harry," replied his mother. "And ever will!" said the young man. "The mental agony I have suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little." "Harry," said Mrs. Maylie, "it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now." "Let it rest with Rose, then," interposed Harry. "You will not press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my way?" "I will not," rejoined Mrs. Maylie; "but I would have you consider" "I _have_ considered!" was the impatient reply; "Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me." "She shall," said Mrs. Maylie. "There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother," said the young man. "Not coldly," rejoined the old lady; "far from it." "How then?" urged the young man. "She has formed no other attachment?" "No, indeed," replied his mother; "you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say," resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, "is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic." "What do you mean?" "That I leave you to discover," replied Mrs. Maylie. "I must go back to her. God bless you!" "I shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, "No, no"; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are. Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need. Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision. It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady's chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was made up with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away, although the	"No, indeed," replied his mother; "you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say," resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, "is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic." "What do you mean?" "That I leave you to discover," replied Mrs. Maylie. "I must go back to her. God bless you!" "I shall see you again to-night?" said the young man, eagerly. "By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose." "You will tell her I am here?" said Harry. "Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie. "And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?" "No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. "Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. "Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.<\|quote\|>"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?"</\|quote\|>said the doctor. "None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. "Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?" "The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir." "That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?" Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, "No, no"; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause,	Oliver Twist
Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.	No speaker	"These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift	his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the	a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not	on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed	he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills. Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus started, and Robert Cohn waved good-by to us, and all the Basques waved good-by to him. As soon as we started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He held the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly. "Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?" The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took	were sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all had their fans going in the sun. It certainly was hot. Robert climbed down and I fitted into the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top. Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting for us start. A Basque with a big leather wine-bag in his lap lay across the top of the bus in front of our seat, leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin to Bill and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that I spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills. Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus started, and Robert Cohn waved good-by to us, and all the Basques waved good-by to him. As soon as we started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He held the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly. "Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?" The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took on several packages. Then we started on again, and outside the town the road commenced to mount. We were going through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down into the fields. The grain-fields went up the hillsides. Now as we went higher there was a wind blowing the grain. The road was white and dusty, and the dust rose under the wheels and hung in the air behind us. The road climbed up into the hills and left the rich grain-fields below. Now there were only patches of grain on the bare hillsides and on each side of the water-courses. We turned sharply out to the side of the road to give room to pass to a long string of six mules, following one after the other, hauling a high-hooded wagon loaded with freight. The wagon and the mules were covered with dust. Close behind was another string of mules and another wagon. This was loaded with lumber, and the arriero driving the mules leaned back and put on the thick wooden brakes as we passed. Up here the country was quite barren and the hills were rocky and hard-baked clay furrowed by the rain. We came around a	Did she ever have anything to do with him?" He raised his chin up and pulled it from side to side. "Sure. She went down to San Sebastian with him." "What a damn-fool thing to do. Why did she do that?" "She wanted to get out of town and she can't go anywhere alone. She said she thought it would be good for him." "What bloody-fool things people do. Why didn't she go off with some of her own people? Or you?" "--he slurred that over--" "or me? Why not me?" He looked at his face carefully in the glass, put a big dab of lather on each cheek-bone. "It's an honest face. It's a face any woman would be safe with." "She'd never seen it." "She should have. All women should see it. It's a face that ought to be thrown on every screen in the country. Every woman ought to be given a copy of this face as she leaves the altar. Mothers should tell their daughters about this face. My son" "--he pointed the razor at me--" "go west with this face and grow up with the country." He ducked down to the bowl, rinsed his face with cold water, put on some alcohol, and then looked at himself carefully in the glass, pulling down his long upper lip. "My God!" he said, "isn't it an awful face?" He looked in the glass. "And as for this Robert Cohn," Bill said, "he makes me sick, and he can go to hell, and I'm damn glad he's staying here so we won't have him fishing with us." "You're damn right." "We're going trout-fishing. We're going trout-fishing in the Irati River, and we're going to get tight now at lunch on the wine of the country, and then take a swell bus ride." "Come on. Let's go over to the Iru a and start," I said. CHAPTER 11 It was baking hot in the square when we came out after lunch with our bags and the rod-case to go to Burguete. People were on top of the bus, and others were climbing up a ladder. Bill went up and Robert sat beside Bill to save a place for me, and I went back in the hotel to get a couple of bottles of wine to take with us. When I came out the bus was crowded. Men and women were sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all had their fans going in the sun. It certainly was hot. Robert climbed down and I fitted into the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top. Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting for us start. A Basque with a big leather wine-bag in his lap lay across the top of the bus in front of our seat, leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin to Bill and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that I spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills. Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus started, and Robert Cohn waved good-by to us, and all the Basques waved good-by to him. As soon as we started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He held the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly. "Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?" The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took on several packages. Then we started on again, and outside the town the road commenced to mount. We were going through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down into the fields. The grain-fields went up the hillsides. Now as we went higher there was a wind blowing the grain. The road was white and dusty, and the dust rose under the wheels and hung in the air behind us. The road climbed up into the hills and left the rich grain-fields below. Now there were only patches of grain on the bare hillsides and on each side of the water-courses. We turned sharply out to the side of the road to give room to pass to a long string of six mules, following one after the other, hauling a high-hooded wagon loaded with freight. The wagon and the mules were covered with dust. Close behind was another string of mules and another wagon. This was loaded with lumber, and the arriero driving the mules leaned back and put on the thick wooden brakes as we passed. Up here the country was quite barren and the hills were rocky and hard-baked clay furrowed by the rain. We came around a curve into a town, and on both sides opened out a sudden green valley. A stream went through the centre of the town and fields of grapes touched the houses. The bus stopped in front of a posada and many of the passengers got down, and a lot of the baggage was unstrapped from the roof from under the big tarpaulins and lifted down. Bill and I got down and went into the posada. There was a low, dark room with saddles and harness, and hay-forks made of white wood, and clusters of canvas rope-soled shoes and hams and slabs of bacon and white garlics and long sausages hanging from the roof. It was cool and dusky, and we stood in front of a long wooden counter with two women behind it serving drinks. Behind them were shelves stacked with supplies and goods. We each had an aguardiente and paid forty centimes for the two drinks. I gave the woman fifty centimes to make a tip, and she gave me back the copper piece, thinking I had misunderstood the price. Two of our Basques came in and insisted on buying a drink. So they bought a drink and then we bought a drink, and then they slapped us on the back and bought another drink. Then we bought, and then we all went out into the sunlight and the heat, and climbed back on top of the bus. There was plenty of room now for every one to sit on the seat, and the Basque who had been lying on the tin roof now sat between us. The woman who had been serving drinks came out wiping her hands on her apron and talked to somebody inside the bus. Then the driver came out swinging two flat leather mail-pouches and climbed up, and everybody waving we started off. The road left the green valley at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and the wine-bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and asked in English: "You're Americans?" "Sure." "I been there," he said. "Forty years ago." He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the stubble of a white beard. "How was it?" "What you say?" "How was America?" "Oh, I was in California. It was fine." "Why did you leave?" "What you say?"	the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that I spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills. Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus started, and Robert Cohn waved good-by to us, and all the Basques waved good-by to him. As soon as we started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we went out along the road with the dust powdering the trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at us. He nodded his head. "Pretty nice, eh?" "These Basques are swell people,"<\|quote\|>Bill said. The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the wine-bag up.</\|quote\|>"Arriba! Arriba!" he said. "Lift it up." Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle down a few drops ran down his chin. "No! No!" several Basques said. "Not like that." One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young fellow and he held the wine-bottle at full arms' length and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He held the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly. "Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?" The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took on several packages. Then we started on again, and outside the town the road commenced to mount. We were going through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down into the fields. The grain-fields went up the hillsides. Now as we went higher there was a wind	The Sun Also Rises
"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"	Brett Ashley	awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been	got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having	wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking	mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on,"	said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the	look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the	and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook	said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike."<\|quote\|>"Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?"</\|quote\|>"Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do	The Sun Also Rises
"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."	Mrs. Hilbery	from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each	to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then	tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully.	unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance	flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!" she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these	the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!" she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of	Mr. Hilbery lived in a house which was accurately numbered in order with its fellows, and that he filled up forms, paid rent, and had seven more years of tenancy to run, he had an excuse for laying down laws for the conduct of those who lived in his house, and this excuse, though profoundly inadequate, he found useful during the interregnum of civilization with which he now found himself faced. In obedience to those laws, Rodney disappeared; Cassandra was dispatched to catch the eleven-thirty on Monday morning; Denham was seen no more; so that only Katharine, the lawful occupant of the upper rooms, remained, and Mr. Hilbery thought himself competent to see that she did nothing further to compromise herself. As he bade her good morning next day he was aware that he knew nothing of what she was thinking, but, as he reflected with some bitterness, even this was an advance upon the ignorance of the previous mornings. He went to his study, wrote, tore up, and wrote again a letter to his wife, asking her to come back on account of domestic difficulties which he specified at first, but in a later draft more discreetly left unspecified. Even if she started the very moment that she got it, he reflected, she would not be home till Tuesday night, and he counted lugubriously the number of hours that he would have to spend in a position of detestable authority alone with his daughter. What was she doing now, he wondered, as he addressed the envelope to his wife. He could not control the telephone. He could not play the spy. She might be making any arrangements she chose. Yet the thought did not disturb him so much as the strange, unpleasant, illicit atmosphere of the whole scene with the young people the night before. His sense of discomfort was almost physical. Had he known it, Katharine was far enough withdrawn, both physically and spiritually, from the telephone. She sat in her room with the dictionaries spreading their wide leaves on the table before her, and all the pages which they had concealed for so many years arranged in a pile. She worked with the steady concentration that is produced by the successful effort to think down some unwelcome thought by means of another thought. Having absorbed the unwelcome thought, her mind went on with additional vigor, derived from the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!" she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly	were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!" she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak.<\|quote\|>"The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him."</\|quote\|>Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than	Night And Day
They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:	No speaker	"Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my	of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy	possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the	trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated	hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a	to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore's, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The song of the future must transcend creed. The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is a nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew harder and less approachable. The English, whom he had laughed at or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; they had even thrown nets over his dreams. "My great mistake has	you. Let's meet again." "We will, in England, if I ever take home leave." "But I suppose you're not likely to do that yet." "Quite a chance. I have a scheme on now as a matter of fact." "Oh, that would be very nice." So it petered out. Ten days later Adela went off, by the same route as her dead friend. The final beat up before the monsoon had come. The country was stricken and blurred. Its houses, trees and fields were all modelled out of the same brown paste, and the sea at Bombay slid about like broth against the quays. Her last Indian adventure was with Antony, who followed her on to the boat and tried to blackmail her. She had been Mr. Fielding's mistress, Antony said. Perhaps Antony was discontented with his tip. She rang the cabin bell and had him turned out, but his statement created rather a scandal, and people did not speak to her much during the first part of the voyage. Through the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea she was left to herself, and to the dregs of Chandrapore. With Egypt the atmosphere altered. The clean sands, heaped on each side of the canal, seemed to wipe off everything that was difficult and equivocal, and even Port Said looked pure and charming in the light of a rose-grey morning. She went on shore there with an American missionary, they walked out to the Lesseps statue, they drank the tonic air of the Levant. "To what duties, Miss Quested, are you returning in your own country after your taste of the tropics?" the missionary asked. "Observe, I don't say to what do you turn, but to what do you _re_-turn. Every life ought to contain both a turn and a _re_-turn. This celebrated pioneer" (he pointed to the statue) "will make my question clear. He turns to the East, he _re_-turns to the West. You can see it from the cute position of his hands, one of which holds a string of sausages." The missionary looked at her humorously, in order to cover the emptiness of his mind. He had no idea what he meant by "turn" and "return," but he often used words in pairs, for the sake of moral brightness. "I see," she replied. Suddenly, in the Mediterranean clarity, she had seen. Her first duty on returning to England was to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore's, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The song of the future must transcend creed. The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is a nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew harder and less approachable. The English, whom he had laughed at or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; they had even thrown nets over his dreams. "My great mistake has been taking our rulers as a joke," he said to Hamidullah next day; who replied with a sigh: "It is far the wisest way to take them, but not possible in the long run. Sooner or later a disaster such as yours occurs, and reveals their secret thoughts about our character. If God himself descended from heaven into their club and said you were innocent, they would disbelieve him. Now you see why Mahmoud Ali and self waste so much time over intrigues and associate with creatures like Ram Chand." "I cannot endure committees. I shall go right away." "Where to? Turtons and Burtons, all are the same." "But not in an Indian state." "I believe the Politicals are obliged to have better manners. It amounts to no more." "I do want to get away from British India, even to a poor job. I think I could write poetry there. I wish I had lived in Babur's time and fought and written for him. Gone, gone, and not even any use to say" Gone, gone,' "for it weakens us while we say it. We need a king, Hamidullah; it would make our lives easier. As it is, we must try to appreciate these quaint Hindus. My notion now is to try for some post as doctor in one of their states." "Oh, that is going much too far." "It is not going as far as Mr. Ram Chand." "But the money, the money they will never pay an adequate salary, those savage Rajahs." "I shall never be rich anywhere, it is outside my character." "If you had been sensible and made Miss Quested pay" "I chose not to. Discussion of the past is useless," he said, with sudden sharpness of tone. "I have allowed her to keep her fortune and buy herself a husband in England, for which it will be very necessary. Don't mention the matter again." "Very well, but your life must continue a poor man's; no holidays in Kashmir for you yet, you must stick to your profession and rise to a highly paid post, not retire to a jungle-state and write poems. Educate your children, read the latest scientific periodicals, compel European doctors to respect you. Accept the consequences of your own actions like a man." Aziz winked at him slowly and said: "We are not in the law courts. There are many ways of being	him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?" "Happy the man who can compose both." "You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent."<\|quote\|>They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said:</\|quote\|>"Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help,	A Passage To India
"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"	Mr. James Harthouse	say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress.	"You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could	be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	for that once, a conscious polishing of but an ugly surface. He was silent for a moment; and then proceeded with a more self-possessed air, though with traces of vexation and disappointment that would not be polished out. "After what has been just now represented to me, in a manner I find it impossible to doubt I know of hardly any other source from which I could have accepted it so readily I feel bound to say to you, in whom the confidence you have mentioned has been reposed, that I cannot refuse to contemplate the possibility (however unexpected) of my seeing the lady no more. I am solely to blame for the thing having come to this and and, I cannot say," he added, rather hard up for a general peroration, "that I have any sanguine expectation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever." Sissy's face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was not finished. "You spoke," he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him again, "of your first object. I may assume that there is a second to be mentioned?" "Yes." "Will you oblige me by confiding it?" "Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse,<\|quote\|>"that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?"</\|quote\|>"_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	Hard Times
"Poor comfort!"	Emma	very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would	like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred	Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is	in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or	used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof." "Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--" "Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction." "As to that--I do not--" "Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses." "There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--" he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it	life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?" "Yes--" (rather hesitatingly) "--I believe I do." "You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off." "I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend." He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank Churchill. "Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly." "You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof." "Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--" "Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction." "As to that--I do not--" "Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses." "There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--" he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be." "I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve--I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved." "It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he. "Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person." "Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself;	"Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves." "Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues." They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--" "But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life." "I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow." "Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her." "May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all." "You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?" "Yes--" (rather hesitatingly) "--I believe I do." "You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off." "I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend." He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank Churchill. "Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly." "You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof." "Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--" "Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction." "As to that--I do not--" "Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses." "There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--" he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be." "I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve--I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved." "It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he. "Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person." "Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any body's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her--not the least--except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal." He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate--his feelings warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr. Elton's house, which, as well as the church, he would go and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault with. No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house. There must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a blockhead who wanted more. Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he was talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper's room, or a bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would willingly	merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth." "And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow." "Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her." "May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all." "You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?" "Yes--" (rather hesitatingly) "--I believe I do." "You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off." "I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend." He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank Churchill. "Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly." "You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof." "Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--" "Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year." "Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof." "Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?" "It was her very particular friend, you know."<\|quote\|>"Poor comfort!"</\|quote\|>said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland." "You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it." "So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction." "As to that--I do not--" "Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses." "There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--" he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be." "I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve--I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved." "It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he. "Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person." "Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any body's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her--not the least--except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal." He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his notions,	Emma
he added.	No speaker	ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I	was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep	very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I	as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him	reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing	piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully. "It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been," he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last she supposed was the cause of William s sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual,	of urbane contentment indeed of delicious expansion to one of uneasiness and expectation. The dinner was brought in, and had to be set by the fire to keep hot. It was now a quarter of an hour beyond the specified time. He bethought him of a piece of news which had depressed him in the earlier part of the day. Owing to the illness of one of his fellow-clerks, it was likely that he would get no holiday until later in the year, which would mean the postponement of their marriage. But this possibility, after all, was not so disagreeable as the probability which forced itself upon him with every tick of the clock that Katharine had completely forgotten her engagement. Such things had happened less frequently since Christmas, but what if they were going to begin to happen again? What if their marriage should turn out, as she had said, a farce? He acquitted her of any wish to hurt him wantonly, but there was something in her character which made it impossible for her to help hurting people. Was she cold? Was she self-absorbed? He tried to fit her with each of these descriptions, but he had to own that she puzzled him. "There are so many things that she doesn t understand," he reflected, glancing at the letter to Cassandra which he had begun and laid aside. What prevented him from finishing the letter which he had so much enjoyed beginning? The reason was that Katharine might, at any moment, enter the room. The thought, implying his bondage to her, irritated him acutely. It occurred to him that he would leave the letter lying open for her to see, and he would take the opportunity of telling her that he had sent his play to Cassandra for her to criticize. Possibly, but not by any means certainly, this would annoy her and as he reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates. "I ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully. "It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been," he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last she supposed was the cause of William s sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual, had now a composure which seemed somehow to place it at a distance, like a face seen talking to some one else behind glass. He wrote on, without raising his eyes. She would have spoken, but could not bring herself to ask him for signs of affection which she had no right to claim. The conviction that he was thus strange to her filled her with despondency, and illustrated quite beyond doubt the infinite loneliness of human beings. She had never felt the truth of this so strongly before. She looked away into the fire; it seemed to her that even physically they were now scarcely within speaking distance; and spiritually there was certainly no human being with whom she could claim comradeship; no dream that satisfied her as she was used to be satisfied; nothing remained in whose reality she could believe, save those abstract ideas figures, laws, stars, facts, which she could hardly hold to for lack of knowledge and a kind of shame. When Rodney owned to himself the folly of this prolonged silence, and the meanness of such devices, and looked up ready to seek some excuse for a good laugh, or opening for a confession, he was disconcerted by what he saw. Katharine seemed equally oblivious of what was bad or of what was good in him. Her expression suggested concentration upon something entirely remote from her surroundings. The carelessness of her attitude seemed to him rather masculine than feminine. His impulse to break up the constraint was chilled, and once more the exasperating sense of his own impotency returned to him. He could not help contrasting Katharine with his vision of the engaging, whimsical Cassandra; Katharine undemonstrative, inconsiderate, silent, and yet so notable that he could never do without her good opinion. She veered round upon him a moment later, as if, when her train of thought was ended, she became aware of his presence. "Have you finished your letter?" she asked. He thought he heard faint amusement in her tone, but not a trace of jealousy. "No, I m not going to write any more to-night," he said. "I m not in the mood for it for some reason. I can t say what I want to say." "Cassandra won t know if it s well written or badly written," Katharine remarked. "I m not so sure about that. I should say she	this would annoy her and as he reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates. "I ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully. "It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been," he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship,"<\|quote\|>he added.</\|quote\|>"She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow." Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last she supposed was the cause of William s sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual, had now a composure which seemed somehow to place it at a distance, like a face seen talking to some one else behind	Night And Day
Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.	No speaker	wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what	he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little	as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don	make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm,	had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off	he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay. For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another. Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun. He was holding himself up by grasping the bough of a tree, and gazing wildly at Mike and his brutal-looking friends; but they were looking in the direction of the farm as they passed, and they did not see him. Then the agonising pain in his head seemed to rob him of the power to think, and he sank back among the ferns. Don had some consciousness of hearing voices,	the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if he's your friend, that's enough." They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions. Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold. The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing. The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night. His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris' _pah_, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem's fancies as to why they were being kept. Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay. For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another. Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun. He was holding himself up by grasping the bough of a tree, and gazing wildly at Mike and his brutal-looking friends; but they were looking in the direction of the farm as they passed, and they did not see him. Then the agonising pain in his head seemed to rob him of the power to think, and he sank back among the ferns. Don had some consciousness of hearing voices, and of feeling hands touching him; but it was all during a time of confusion, and when he looked round again with the power to think, he was facing a tiny unglazed window, the shutter which was used to close it standing below. He was lying on a rough bed formed of sacking spread over dried fern leaves, and the shed he was in had for furniture a rough table formed by nailing a couple of pieces of board across a tub, another tub with part of the side sawn out formed an armchair; and the walls were ornamented with bunches of seeds tied up and hung there for preservation, a saddle and bridle, and some garden tools neatly arranged in a corner. Don lay wondering what it all meant, his eyes resting longest upon the open window, through which he could see the glorious sunshine, and the leaves moving in the gentle breeze. He felt very happy and comfortable, but when he tried to raise his head the effort was in vain, and this set him wondering again, till he closed his eyes and lay thinking. Suddenly he unclosed them again to lie listening, feeling the while that he had been asleep, for close beside him there was some one whistling in a very low tone--quite a whisper of a whistle--a familiar old Somersetshire melody, which seemed to carry him back to the sugar yard at Bristol, where he had heard Jem whistle that tune a score of times. This set him thinking of home, his mother, and Cousin Kitty. Then of stern-looking Uncle Josiah, who, after all, did not seem to have been unkind. "Poor Mas' Don! Will he ever get well again?" a voice whispered close to his ear. "Jem!" "Oh, Mas' Don! Oh! Oh! Oh! Thank the great Lord o' mussy. Amen! Amen! Amen!" There was the sound of some one going down heavily upon his knees, a pair of clasped hands rested on Don's breast; and, as he turned his eyes sidewise, he could see the top of Jem's head as the bed shook, and there was the sound of some one sobbing violently, but in a choking, smothered way. "Jem! Is that you? What's the matter?" whispered Don feebly. "And he says, `What's the matter?'" cried Jem, raising his head, and bending over Don. "Dear lad, dear lad; how are you now?" "Quite well,	face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.<\|quote\|>Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.</\|quote\|>If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay. For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another. Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun. He was holding himself up by grasping the bough	Don Lavington
And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,	No speaker	of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed,	a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen	She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You	would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar	I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?" She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar Road?" Nureddin looked down. Aziz continued: "Your grandfather belongs to another generation, and I respect and love the old gentleman, as you know. I say nothing against him, only that it is wrong for us, because we are young. I want you to promise me Nureddin, are you listening? not to believe in Evil Spirits, and if I die (for my health grows very weak) to bring up my three children to disbelieve in them too." Nureddin smiled, and a suitable answer rose to his pretty lips, but before he could make it the car arrived, and his grandfather took	stormed, shouted, howled, and only the experienced observer could tell that he was not angry, did not much want the files, and only made a row because it was the custom. Servants, quite understanding, ran slowly in circles, carrying hurricane lamps. Krishna the earth, Krishna the stars replied, until the Englishman was appeased by their echoes, fined the absent peon eight annas, and sat down to his arrears in the next room. "Will you play Patience with your future mother-in-law, dear Adela, or does it seem too tame?" "I should like to I don't feel a bit excited I'm just glad it's settled up at last, but I'm not conscious of vast changes. We are all three the same people still." "That's much the best feeling to have." She dealt out the first row of "demon." "I suppose so," said the girl thoughtfully. "I feared at Mr. Fielding's that it might be settled the other way . . . black knave on a red queen. . . ." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said: "You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?" She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar Road?" Nureddin looked down. Aziz continued: "Your grandfather belongs to another generation, and I respect and love the old gentleman, as you know. I say nothing against him, only that it is wrong for us, because we are young. I want you to promise me Nureddin, are you listening? not to believe in Evil Spirits, and if I die (for my health grows very weak) to bring up my three children to disbelieve in them too." Nureddin smiled, and a suitable answer rose to his pretty lips, but before he could make it the car arrived, and his grandfather took him away. The game of Patience up in the civil lines went on longer than this. Mrs. Moore continued to murmur "Red ten on a black knave," Miss Quested to assist her, and to intersperse among the intricacies of the play details about the hyena, the engagement, the Maharani of Mudkul, the Bhattacharyas, and the day generally, whose rough desiccated surface acquired as it receded a definite outline, as India itself might, could it be viewed from the moon. Presently the players went to bed, but not before other people had woken up elsewhere, people whose emotions they could not share, and whose existence they ignored. Never tranquil, never perfectly dark, the night wore itself away, distinguished from other nights by two or three blasts of wind, which seemed to fall perpendicularly out of the sky and to bounce back into it, hard and compact, leaving no freshness behind them: the hot weather was approaching. CHAPTER IX Aziz fell ill as he foretold slightly ill. Three days later he lay abed in his bungalow, pretending to be very ill. It was a touch of fever, which he would have neglected if there was anything important at the hospital. Now and	latter. The Collector had favoured the Hindus, until he suspected that they had artificially bent the tree nearer the ground. They said it sagged naturally. Measurements, plans, an official visit to the spot. But Ronny had not disliked his day, for it proved that the British were necessary to India; there would certainly have been bloodshed without them. His voice grew complacent again; he was here not to be pleasant but to keep the peace, and now that Adela had promised to be his wife, she was sure to understand. "What does our old gentleman of the car think?" she asked, and her negligent tone was exactly what he desired. "Our old gentleman is helpful and sound, as he always is over public affairs. You've seen in him our show Indian." "Have I really?" "I'm afraid so. Incredible, aren't they, even the best of them? They're all they all forget their back collar studs sooner or later. You've had to do with three sets of Indians to-day, the Bhattacharyas, Aziz, and this chap, and it really isn't a coincidence that they've all let you down." "I like Aziz, Aziz is my real friend," Mrs. Moore interposed. "When the animal runs into us the Nawab loses his head, deserts his unfortunate chauffeur, intrudes upon Miss Derek . . . no great crimes, no great crimes, but no white man would have done it." "What animal?" "Oh, we had a small accident on the Marabar road. Adela thinks it was a hyena." "An accident?" she cried. "Nothing; no one hurt. Our excellent host awoke much rattled from his dreams, appeared to think it was our fault, and chanted exactly, exactly." Mrs. Moore shivered, "A ghost!" But the idea of a ghost scarcely passed her lips. The young people did not take it up, being occupied with their own outlooks, and deprived of support it perished, or was reabsorbed into the part of the mind that seldom speaks. "Yes, nothing criminal," Ronny summed up, "but there's the native, and there's one of the reasons why we don't admit him to our clubs, and how a decent girl like Miss Derek can take service under natives puzzles me. . . . But I must get on with my work. Krishna!" Krishna was the peon who should have brought the files from his office. He had not turned up, and a terrific row ensued. Ronny stormed, shouted, howled, and only the experienced observer could tell that he was not angry, did not much want the files, and only made a row because it was the custom. Servants, quite understanding, ran slowly in circles, carrying hurricane lamps. Krishna the earth, Krishna the stars replied, until the Englishman was appeased by their echoes, fined the absent peon eight annas, and sat down to his arrears in the next room. "Will you play Patience with your future mother-in-law, dear Adela, or does it seem too tame?" "I should like to I don't feel a bit excited I'm just glad it's settled up at last, but I'm not conscious of vast changes. We are all three the same people still." "That's much the best feeling to have." She dealt out the first row of "demon." "I suppose so," said the girl thoughtfully. "I feared at Mr. Fielding's that it might be settled the other way . . . black knave on a red queen. . . ." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said: "You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?" She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar Road?" Nureddin looked down. Aziz continued: "Your grandfather belongs to another generation, and I respect and love the old gentleman, as you know. I say nothing against him, only that it is wrong for us, because we are young. I want you to promise me Nureddin, are you listening? not to believe in Evil Spirits, and if I die (for my health grows very weak) to bring up my three children to disbelieve in them too." Nureddin smiled, and a suitable answer rose to his pretty lips, but before he could make it the car arrived, and his grandfather took him away. The game of Patience up in the civil lines went on longer than this. Mrs. Moore continued to murmur "Red ten on a black knave," Miss Quested to assist her, and to intersperse among the intricacies of the play details about the hyena, the engagement, the Maharani of Mudkul, the Bhattacharyas, and the day generally, whose rough desiccated surface acquired as it receded a definite outline, as India itself might, could it be viewed from the moon. Presently the players went to bed, but not before other people had woken up elsewhere, people whose emotions they could not share, and whose existence they ignored. Never tranquil, never perfectly dark, the night wore itself away, distinguished from other nights by two or three blasts of wind, which seemed to fall perpendicularly out of the sky and to bounce back into it, hard and compact, leaving no freshness behind them: the hot weather was approaching. CHAPTER IX Aziz fell ill as he foretold slightly ill. Three days later he lay abed in his bungalow, pretending to be very ill. It was a touch of fever, which he would have neglected if there was anything important at the hospital. Now and then he groaned and thought he should die, but did not think so for long, and a very little diverted him. It was Sunday, always an equivocal day in the East, and an excuse for slacking. He could hear church bells as he drowsed, both from the civil station and from the missionaries out beyond the slaughter house different bells and rung with different intent, for one set was calling firmly to Anglo-India, and the other feebly to mankind. He did not object to the first set; the other he ignored, knowing their inefficiency. Old Mr. Graysford and young Mr. Sorley made converts during a famine, because they distributed food; but when times improved they were naturally left alone again, and though surprised and aggrieved each time this happened, they never learnt wisdom. "No Englishman understands us except Mr. Fielding," he thought; "but how shall I see him again? If he entered this room the disgrace of it would kill me." He called to Hassan to clear up, but Hassan, who was testing his wages by ringing them on the step of the verandah, found it possible not to hear him; heard and didn't hear, just as Aziz had called and hadn't called. "That's India all over . . . how like us . . . there we are . . ." He dozed again, and his thoughts wandered over the varied surface of life. Gradually they steadied upon a certain spot the Bottomless Pit according to missionaries, but he had never regarded it as more than a dimple. Yes, he did want to spend an evening with some girls, singing and all that, the vague jollity that would culminate in voluptuousness. Yes, that was what he did want. How could it be managed? If Major Callendar had been an Indian, he would have remembered what young men are, and granted two or three days' leave to Calcutta without asking questions. But the Major assumed either that his subordinates were made of ice, or that they repaired to the Chandrapore bazaars disgusting ideas both. It was only Mr. Fielding who "Hassan!" The servant came running. "Look at those flies, brother;" and he pointed to the horrible mass that hung from the ceiling. The nucleus was a wire which had been inserted as a homage to electricity. Electricity had paid no attention, and a colony of eye-flies had come instead and	why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?" She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely."<\|quote\|>And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated,</\|quote\|>"If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar Road?" Nureddin looked down. Aziz continued: "Your grandfather belongs to another generation, and I respect and love the old gentleman, as you know. I say nothing against him, only that it is wrong for us, because we are young. I want you to promise me Nureddin, are you listening? not to believe in Evil Spirits, and if I die (for my health grows very weak) to bring up my three children to disbelieve in them too." Nureddin smiled, and a suitable answer rose to his pretty lips, but before he could make it the car arrived, and his grandfather took him away. The game of Patience up in the civil lines went on longer than this. Mrs. Moore continued to murmur "Red ten on a black knave," Miss Quested to assist her, and to intersperse among the intricacies of the play details about the hyena, the engagement, the Maharani of Mudkul, the Bhattacharyas, and the day generally, whose rough desiccated surface acquired as it receded a definite outline, as India itself might, could it be viewed from the moon. Presently the players went to bed, but not before other people had woken up elsewhere, people whose emotions they could not share, and whose existence they ignored. Never tranquil, never perfectly dark, the night wore itself away, distinguished from other nights by two or three blasts of wind, which seemed to fall perpendicularly out of the sky and to bounce back	A Passage To India
"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."	Harriet Smith	business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What	the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is	had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is	Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on	could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have	together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever. With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight." "I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?" "He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd." "Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable." "Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!" "Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died,	not want. It was quite a different sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing. Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy what she liked--but she could never believe that in the same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth. Harriet had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther. Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great part of the conversation--and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe the many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her talkativeness--amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of Mrs. Martin's having "_two_ parlours, two very good parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it, it should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to drink tea:--a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people." For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever. With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight." "I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?" "He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd." "Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable." "Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!" "Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet." "To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year." "I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does marry;--I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife--for though his sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading you." "Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any body can do." "You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would have you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without education." "To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body but what had had some education--and been very well brought up. However, I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours--and I am sure I shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for	as Mrs. Goddard's drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it, it should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to drink tea:--a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people." For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever. With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all. "Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about." "And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her." "Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?"<\|quote\|>"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."</\|quote\|>The next question was-- "What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?" "Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often." "That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it." "To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight." "I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?" "He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd." "Only	Emma
looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.	No speaker	"I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you	household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera	their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see	lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp	at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their	practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more general tone to the conversation. Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority felt. Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to play the	who received letters which should never have been written; and still other stories, grave and gay, till Mrs. Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men seriously was apparently forgotten. Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take the hour's rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her, Robert begged her pardon for the impatience he called it rudeness with which he had received her well-meant caution. "You made one mistake, Ad le," he said, with a light smile; "there is no earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You should have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice might then have carried some weight and given me subject for some reflection. _Au revoir_. But you look tired," he added, solicitously. "Would you like a cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix you a toddy with a drop of Angostura." She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty S vres cup, with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer. She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a _bon gar on_, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward "the house." The lovers were just entering the grounds of the _pension_. They were leaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more general tone to the conversation. Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority felt. Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin's colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from "Zampa," and at the earnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant." "_Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_" shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first time that summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected; and his decrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot fortunately offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and hurled against the twins in that one impetuous outburst. Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one present had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the city. A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The mother played her accompaniments and at the same time watched her daughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have had no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had been properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk tights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially crimped, stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses were full of grace, and her little black-shod toes twinkled as they shot out and upward with a rapidity and suddenness which were bewildering. But there was no reason why every one should not dance. Madame Ratignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the others. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing an expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was keeping up her music on account of the children, she said; because she and her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home and making it attractive. Almost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to separate during the brief period when one or the other should be whirling around the room in the arms of a man. They might	grounds of the _pension_. They were leaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical. Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. "Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children." "I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes. "Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway? Victor?" "Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere." "Call him." Clatter, clatter! Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. "He won't look up." Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. "Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!" Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. "What do you hear from Montel?" Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left in the Lebrun household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere,"<\|quote\|>looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.</\|quote\|>"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month," clatter, clatter! "and if you still have the intention of joining him" bang! clatter, clatter, bang! "Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted" Clatter, clatter, clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute." Clatter, clatter! "Where are you going?" "Where did you say the Goncourt was?" IX Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf. It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences and give a more general tone to the conversation. Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority felt. Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin's colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from "Zampa," and at the earnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant." "_Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_" shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he was not listening to these gracious performances for	The Awakening
"And how happy we both were."	Mrs. Moore	and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin	rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall	to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not	day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, "Oh, what more can I do for her?" and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur." "Why like him?" she enquired, rising. "Because my ancestors came down with him from	it is tainted with the sense of possession. It was only when Mrs. Moore or Fielding was near him that he saw further, and knew that it is more blessed to receive than to give. These two had strange and beautiful effects on him they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever; he loved them so much that giving and receiving became one. He loved them even better than the Hamidullahs, because he had surmounted obstacles to meet them, and this stimulates a generous mind. Their images remained somewhere in his soul up to his dying day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, "Oh, what more can I do for her?" and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur." "Why like him?" she enquired, rising. "Because my ancestors came down with him from Afghanistan. They joined him at Herat. He also had often no more elephants than one, none sometimes, but he never ceased showing hospitality. When he fought or hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time among hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospitality and pleasure, and if there was only a little food, he would have it arranged nicely, and if only one musical instrument, he would compel it to play a beautiful tune. I take him as my ideal. He is the poor gentleman, and he became a great king." "I thought	that English people never stop eating, and that he had better nourish them every two hours until a solid meal was ready. "How very well it is all arranged." "That you shall tell me when I return to Chandrapore. Whatever disgraces I bring upon myself, you remain my guests." He spoke gravely now. They were dependent on him for a few hours, and he felt grateful to them for placing themselves in such a position. All was well so far; the elephant held a fresh cut bough to her lips, the tonga shafts stuck up into the air, the kitchen-boy peeled potatoes, Hassan shouted, and Mohammed Latif stood as he ought, with a peeled switch in his hand. The expedition was a success, and it was Indian; an obscure young man had been allowed to show courtesy to visitors from another country, which is what all Indians long to do even cynics like Mahmoud Ali but they never have the chance. Hospitality had been achieved, they were "his" guests; his honour was involved in their happiness, and any discomfort they endured would tear his own soul. Like most Orientals, Aziz overrated hospitality, mistaking it for intimacy, and not seeing that it is tainted with the sense of possession. It was only when Mrs. Moore or Fielding was near him that he saw further, and knew that it is more blessed to receive than to give. These two had strange and beautiful effects on him they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever; he loved them so much that giving and receiving became one. He loved them even better than the Hamidullahs, because he had surmounted obstacles to meet them, and this stimulates a generous mind. Their images remained somewhere in his soul up to his dying day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, "Oh, what more can I do for her?" and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur." "Why like him?" she enquired, rising. "Because my ancestors came down with him from Afghanistan. They joined him at Herat. He also had often no more elephants than one, none sometimes, but he never ceased showing hospitality. When he fought or hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time among hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospitality and pleasure, and if there was only a little food, he would have it arranged nicely, and if only one musical instrument, he would compel it to play a beautiful tune. I take him as my ideal. He is the poor gentleman, and he became a great king." "I thought another Emperor is your favourite I forget the name you mentioned him at Mr. Fielding's: what my book calls Aurangzebe." "Alamgir? Oh yes, he was of course the more pious. But Babur never in his whole life did he betray a friend, so I can only think of him this morning. And you know how he died? He laid down his life for his son. A death far more difficult than battle. They were caught in the heat. They should have gone back to Kabul for the bad weather, but could not for reasons of state, and at Agra Humayun fell sick. Babur walked round the bed three times, and said," I have borne it away,' "and he did bear it away; the fever left his son and came to him instead, and he died. That is why I prefer Babur to Alamgir. I ought not to do so, but I do. However, I mustn't delay you. I see you are ready to start." "Not at all," she said, sitting down by Mrs. Moore again. "We enjoy talk like this very much." For at last he was talking about what he knew and felt, talking as he had in Fielding's	some rubbish about protective mimicry. Nothing was explained, and yet there was no romance. Films of heat, radiated from the Kawa Dol precipices, increased the confusion. They came at irregular intervals and moved capriciously. A patch of field would jump as if it was being fried, and then lie quiet. As they drew closer the radiation stopped. The elephant walked straight at the Kawa Dol as if she would knock for admission with her forehead, then swerved, and followed a path round its base. The stones plunged straight into the earth, like cliffs into the sea, and while Miss Quested was remarking on this, and saying that it was striking, the plain quietly disappeared, peeled off, so to speak, and nothing was to be seen on either side but the granite, very dead and quiet. The sky dominated as usual, but seemed unhealthily near, adhering like a ceiling to the summits of the precipices. It was as if the contents of the corridor had never been changed. Occupied by his own munificence, Aziz noticed nothing. His guests noticed a little. They did not feel that it was an attractive place or quite worth visiting, and wished it could have turned into some Mohammedan object, such as a mosque, which their host would have appreciated and explained. His ignorance became evident, and was really rather a drawback. In spite of his gay, confident talk, he had no notion how to treat this particular aspect of India; he was lost in it without Professor Godbole, like themselves. The corridor narrowed, then widened into a sort of tray. Here, more or less, was their goal. A ruined tank held a little water which would do for the animals, and close above the mud was punched a black hole the first of the caves. Three hills encircled the tray. Two of them pumped out heat busily, but the third was in shadow, and here they camped. "A horrid, stuffy place really," murmured Mrs. Moore to herself. "How quick your servants are!" Miss Quested exclaimed. For a cloth had already been laid, with a vase of artificial flowers in its centre, and Mahmoud Ali's butler offered them poached eggs and tea for the second time. "I thought we would eat this before our caves, and breakfast after." "Isn't this breakfast?" "This breakfast? Did you think I should treat you so strangely?" He had been warned that English people never stop eating, and that he had better nourish them every two hours until a solid meal was ready. "How very well it is all arranged." "That you shall tell me when I return to Chandrapore. Whatever disgraces I bring upon myself, you remain my guests." He spoke gravely now. They were dependent on him for a few hours, and he felt grateful to them for placing themselves in such a position. All was well so far; the elephant held a fresh cut bough to her lips, the tonga shafts stuck up into the air, the kitchen-boy peeled potatoes, Hassan shouted, and Mohammed Latif stood as he ought, with a peeled switch in his hand. The expedition was a success, and it was Indian; an obscure young man had been allowed to show courtesy to visitors from another country, which is what all Indians long to do even cynics like Mahmoud Ali but they never have the chance. Hospitality had been achieved, they were "his" guests; his honour was involved in their happiness, and any discomfort they endured would tear his own soul. Like most Orientals, Aziz overrated hospitality, mistaking it for intimacy, and not seeing that it is tainted with the sense of possession. It was only when Mrs. Moore or Fielding was near him that he saw further, and knew that it is more blessed to receive than to give. These two had strange and beautiful effects on him they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever; he loved them so much that giving and receiving became one. He loved them even better than the Hamidullahs, because he had surmounted obstacles to meet them, and this stimulates a generous mind. Their images remained somewhere in his soul up to his dying day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, "Oh, what more can I do for her?" and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur." "Why like him?" she enquired, rising. "Because my ancestors came down with him from Afghanistan. They joined him at Herat. He also had often no more elephants than one, none sometimes, but he never ceased showing hospitality. When he fought or hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time among hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospitality and pleasure, and if there was only a little food, he would have it arranged nicely, and if only one musical instrument, he would compel it to play a beautiful tune. I take him as my ideal. He is the poor gentleman, and he became a great king." "I thought another Emperor is your favourite I forget the name you mentioned him at Mr. Fielding's: what my book calls Aurangzebe." "Alamgir? Oh yes, he was of course the more pious. But Babur never in his whole life did he betray a friend, so I can only think of him this morning. And you know how he died? He laid down his life for his son. A death far more difficult than battle. They were caught in the heat. They should have gone back to Kabul for the bad weather, but could not for reasons of state, and at Agra Humayun fell sick. Babur walked round the bed three times, and said," I have borne it away,' "and he did bear it away; the fever left his son and came to him instead, and he died. That is why I prefer Babur to Alamgir. I ought not to do so, but I do. However, I mustn't delay you. I see you are ready to start." "Not at all," she said, sitting down by Mrs. Moore again. "We enjoy talk like this very much." For at last he was talking about what he knew and felt, talking as he had in Fielding's garden-house; he was again the Oriental guide whom they appreciated. "I always enjoy conversing about the Moguls. It is the chief pleasure I know. You see, those first six emperors were all most wonderful men, and as soon as one of them is mentioned, no matter which, I forget everything else in the world except the other five. You could not find six such kings in all the countries of the earth, not, I mean, coming one after the other father, son." "Tell us something about Akbar." "Ah, you have heard the name of Akbar. Good. Hamidullah whom you shall meet will tell you that Akbar is the greatest of all. I say," Yes, Akbar is very wonderful, but half a Hindu; he was not a true Moslem, "which makes Hamidullah cry," No more was Babur, he drank wine.' "But Babur always repented afterwards, which makes the entire difference, and Akbar never repented of the new religion he invented instead of the Holy Koran." "But wasn't Akbar's new religion very fine? It was to embrace the whole of India." "Miss Quested, fine but foolish. You keep your religion, I mine. That is the best. Nothing embraces the whole of India, nothing, nothing, and that was Akbar's mistake." "Oh, do you feel that, Dr. Aziz?" she said thoughtfully. "I hope you're not right. There will have to be something universal in this country I don't say religion, for I'm not religious, but something, or how else are barriers to be broken down?" She was only recommending the universal brotherhood he sometimes dreamed of, but as soon as it was put into prose it became untrue. "Take my own case," she continued it was indeed her own case that had animated her. "I don't know whether you happen to have heard, but I'm going to marry Mr. Heaslop." "On which my heartiest congratulations." "Mrs. Moore, may I put our difficulty to Dr. Aziz I mean our Anglo-Indian one?" "It is your difficulty, not mine, my dear." "Ah, that's true. Well, by marrying Mr. Heaslop, I shall become what is known as an Anglo-Indian." He held up his hand in protest. "Impossible. Take back such a terrible remark." "But I shall; it's inevitable. I can't avoid the label. What I do hope to avoid is the mentality. Women like" She stopped, not quite liking to mention names; she would boldly have said "Mrs.	was Indian; an obscure young man had been allowed to show courtesy to visitors from another country, which is what all Indians long to do even cynics like Mahmoud Ali but they never have the chance. Hospitality had been achieved, they were "his" guests; his honour was involved in their happiness, and any discomfort they endured would tear his own soul. Like most Orientals, Aziz overrated hospitality, mistaking it for intimacy, and not seeing that it is tainted with the sense of possession. It was only when Mrs. Moore or Fielding was near him that he saw further, and knew that it is more blessed to receive than to give. These two had strange and beautiful effects on him they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever; he loved them so much that giving and receiving became one. He loved them even better than the Hamidullahs, because he had surmounted obstacles to meet them, and this stimulates a generous mind. Their images remained somewhere in his soul up to his dying day, permanent additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck-chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to think, "Oh, what more can I do for her?" and so back to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, "Do you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?" "I do. I do," she said, suddenly vital and young. "And how rough and rude I was, and how good you were."<\|quote\|>"And how happy we both were."</\|quote\|>"Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. Shall I ever entertain your other children?" "Do you know about the others? She will never talk about them to me," said Miss Quested, unintentionally breaking a spell. "Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur." "Why like him?" she enquired, rising. "Because my ancestors came down with him from Afghanistan. They joined him at Herat. He also had often no more elephants than one, none sometimes, but he never ceased showing hospitality. When he fought or hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time among hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospitality and pleasure, and if there was only a little food, he would have it arranged nicely, and if only one musical instrument, he would compel it to play a beautiful tune. I take him as my ideal. He is the poor gentleman, and he became a great king." "I thought another Emperor is your favourite I	A Passage To India
"Paul--Paul----"	Paul	answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer.	I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert	light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words	I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward. I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back. I do not mention the dead	I am coming. I will call out as soon as I can so that they will recognize me. I will stay lying in front of the trench until they answer me. The first star. The front remains quiet. I breathe deeply and talk to myself in my excitement: "No foolishness now, Paul--Quiet, Paul, quiet--then you will be saved, Paul." When I use my Christian name it works as though someone else spoke to me, it has more power. The darkness grows. My excitement subsides, I wait cautiously until the first rocket goes up. Then I crawl out of the shell-hole. I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward. I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back. I do not mention the dead printer. But by next morning I can keep it to myself no longer. I must tell Kat and Albert. They both try to calm me. "You can't do anything about it. What else could you have done? That is what you are here for." I listen to them and feel comforted, reassured by their presence. It was mere drivelling nonsense that I talked out there in the shell-hole. "Look there for instance," points Kat. On the fire-step stand some snipers. They rest their rifles with telescopic sights on the parapet and watch the enemy front. Once and again a shot	of it, comrade, I will fight against this, that has struck us both down; from you, taken life--and from me--? Life also. I promise you, comrade. It shall never happen again." The sun strikes low. I am stupefied with exhaustion and hunger. Yesterday is like a fog to me, there is no hope of getting out of this yet. I fall into a doze and do not at first realize that evening is approaching. The twilight comes. It seems to me to come quickly now. One hour more. If it were summer, it would be three hours more. One hour more. Now suddenly I begin to tremble; something might happen in the interval. I think no more of the dead man, he is of no consequence to me now. With one bound the lust to live flares up again and everything that has filled my thoughts goes down before it. Now, merely to avert any ill-luck, I babble mechanically: "I will fulfil everything, fulfil everything I have promised you----" but already I know that I shall not do so. Suddenly it occurs to me that my own comrades may fire on me as I creep up; they do not know I am coming. I will call out as soon as I can so that they will recognize me. I will stay lying in front of the trench until they answer me. The first star. The front remains quiet. I breathe deeply and talk to myself in my excitement: "No foolishness now, Paul--Quiet, Paul, quiet--then you will be saved, Paul." When I use my Christian name it works as though someone else spoke to me, it has more power. The darkness grows. My excitement subsides, I wait cautiously until the first rocket goes up. Then I crawl out of the shell-hole. I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward. I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back. I do not mention the dead printer. But by next morning I can keep it to myself no longer. I must tell Kat and Albert. They both try to calm me. "You can't do anything about it. What else could you have done? That is what you are here for." I listen to them and feel comforted, reassured by their presence. It was mere drivelling nonsense that I talked out there in the shell-hole. "Look there for instance," points Kat. On the fire-step stand some snipers. They rest their rifles with telescopic sights on the parapet and watch the enemy front. Once and again a shot cracks out. Then we hear the cry: "That's found a billet!" "Did you see how he leapt in the air?" Sergeant Oellrich turns round proudly and scores his point. He heads the shooting list for to-day with three unquestionable hits. "What do you say to that?" asks Kat. I nod. "If he keeps that up he will get a little coloured bird for his buttonhole by this evening," says Albert. "Or rather he will soon be made acting-sergeant-major," says Kat. We look at one another. "I would not do it," I say. "All the same," says Kat, "it's very good for you to see it just now." Sergeant Oellrich returns to the fire-step. The muzzle of his rifle searches to and fro. "You don't need to lose any more sleep over your affair," nods Albert. And now I hardly understand it myself any more. "It was only because I had to lie there with him so long," I say. "After all, war is war." Oellrich's rifle cracks out sharp and dry. CHAPTER X We have dropped in for a good job. Eight of us have to guard a village that has been abandoned because it is being shelled too heavily.	will always come back and stand before me. Irresolutely I take the wallet in my hand. It slips out of my hand and falls open. Some pictures and letters drop out. I gather them up and want to put them back again, but the strain I am under, the uncertainty, the hunger, the danger, these hours with the dead man have confused me, I want to hasten the relief, to intensify and to end the torture, as one strikes an unendurably painful hand against the trunk of a tree, regardless of everything. There are portraits of a woman and a little girl, small amateur photographs taken against an ivy-clad wall. Along with them are letters. I take them out and try to read them. Most of it I do not understand, it is so hard to decipher and I know scarcely any French. But each word I translate pierces me like a shot in the chest;--like a stab in the chest. My brain is taxed beyond endurance. But I realize this much, that I will never dare to write to these people as I intended. Impossible. I look at the portraits once more; they are clearly not rich people. I might send them money anonymously if I earn anything later on. I seize upon that, it is at least something to hold on to. This dead man is bound up with my life, therefore I must do everything, promise everything, in order to save myself; I swear blindly that I mean to live only for his sake and his family, with wet lips I try to placate him--and deep down in me lies the hope that I may buy myself off in this way and perhaps even yet get out of this; it is a little stratagem: if only I am allowed to escape, then I will see to it. So I open the book and read slowly:--Gerard Duval, compositor. With the dead man's pencil I write the address on an envelope, then swiftly thrust everything back into his tunic. I have killed the printer, Gerard Duval. I must be a printer, I think confusedly, be a printer, printer---- * * By afternoon I am calmer. My fear was groundless. The name troubles me no more. The madness passes. "Comrade," I say to the dead man, but I say it calmly, "To-day you, to-morrow me. But if I come out of it, comrade, I will fight against this, that has struck us both down; from you, taken life--and from me--? Life also. I promise you, comrade. It shall never happen again." The sun strikes low. I am stupefied with exhaustion and hunger. Yesterday is like a fog to me, there is no hope of getting out of this yet. I fall into a doze and do not at first realize that evening is approaching. The twilight comes. It seems to me to come quickly now. One hour more. If it were summer, it would be three hours more. One hour more. Now suddenly I begin to tremble; something might happen in the interval. I think no more of the dead man, he is of no consequence to me now. With one bound the lust to live flares up again and everything that has filled my thoughts goes down before it. Now, merely to avert any ill-luck, I babble mechanically: "I will fulfil everything, fulfil everything I have promised you----" but already I know that I shall not do so. Suddenly it occurs to me that my own comrades may fire on me as I creep up; they do not know I am coming. I will call out as soon as I can so that they will recognize me. I will stay lying in front of the trench until they answer me. The first star. The front remains quiet. I breathe deeply and talk to myself in my excitement: "No foolishness now, Paul--Quiet, Paul, quiet--then you will be saved, Paul." When I use my Christian name it works as though someone else spoke to me, it has more power. The darkness grows. My excitement subsides, I wait cautiously until the first rocket goes up. Then I crawl out of the shell-hole. I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward. I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back. I do not mention the dead printer. But by next morning I can keep it to myself no longer. I must tell Kat and Albert. They both try to calm me. "You can't do anything about it. What else could you have done? That is what you are here for." I listen to them and feel comforted, reassured by their presence. It was mere drivelling nonsense that I talked out there in the shell-hole. "Look there for instance," points Kat. On the fire-step stand some snipers. They rest their rifles with telescopic sights on the parapet and watch the enemy front. Once and again a shot cracks out. Then we hear the cry: "That's found a billet!" "Did you see how he leapt in the air?" Sergeant Oellrich turns round proudly and scores his point. He heads the shooting list for to-day with three unquestionable hits. "What do you say to that?" asks Kat. I nod. "If he keeps that up he will get a little coloured bird for his buttonhole by this evening," says Albert. "Or rather he will soon be made acting-sergeant-major," says Kat. We look at one another. "I would not do it," I say. "All the same," says Kat, "it's very good for you to see it just now." Sergeant Oellrich returns to the fire-step. The muzzle of his rifle searches to and fro. "You don't need to lose any more sleep over your affair," nods Albert. And now I hardly understand it myself any more. "It was only because I had to lie there with him so long," I say. "After all, war is war." Oellrich's rifle cracks out sharp and dry. CHAPTER X We have dropped in for a good job. Eight of us have to guard a village that has been abandoned because it is being shelled too heavily. In particular we have to watch the supply dump as that is not yet empty. We are supposed to provision ourselves from the same store. We are just the right people for that;--Kat, Albert, Müller, Tjaden, Detering, our whole gang is there. Haie is dead, though. But we are mighty lucky all the same, all the other squads have had more casualties than we have. We select, as a dug-out, a reinforced concrete cellar into which steps lead down from above. The entrance is protected by a separate concrete wall. Now we develop an immense industry. This is an opportunity not only to stretch one's legs, but to stretch one's soul also. We make the best use of such opportunities. The war is too desperate to allow us to be sentimental for long. That is only possible so long as things are not going too badly. After all, we cannot afford to be anything but matter-of-fact. So matter-of-fact, indeed, that I often shudder when a thought from the days before the war comes momentarily into my head. But it does not stay long. We have to take things as lightly as we can, so we make the most of every opportunity, and nonsense stands stark and immediate beside horror. It cannot be otherwise, that is how we hearten ourselves. So we zealously set to work to create an idyll--an idyll of eating and sleeping, of course. The floor is first covered with mattresses which we haul in from the houses. Even a soldier's behind likes to sit soft. Only in the middle of the floor is there any clear space. Then we furnish ourselves with blankets and eiderdowns, luxurious soft affairs. There is plenty of everything to be had in the town. Albert and I find a mahogany bed which can be taken to pieces, with a sky of blue silk and a lace coverlet. We sweat like monkeys moving it in, but a man cannot let a thing like that slip, and it would certainly be shot to pieces in a day or two. Kat and I do a little patrolling through the houses. In very short time we have collected a dozen eggs and two pounds of fairly fresh butter. Suddenly there is a crash in the drawing room, and an iron stove hurtles through the wall past us and on, a yard from us out through the	It seems to me to come quickly now. One hour more. If it were summer, it would be three hours more. One hour more. Now suddenly I begin to tremble; something might happen in the interval. I think no more of the dead man, he is of no consequence to me now. With one bound the lust to live flares up again and everything that has filled my thoughts goes down before it. Now, merely to avert any ill-luck, I babble mechanically: "I will fulfil everything, fulfil everything I have promised you----" but already I know that I shall not do so. Suddenly it occurs to me that my own comrades may fire on me as I creep up; they do not know I am coming. I will call out as soon as I can so that they will recognize me. I will stay lying in front of the trench until they answer me. The first star. The front remains quiet. I breathe deeply and talk to myself in my excitement: "No foolishness now, Paul--Quiet, Paul, quiet--then you will be saved, Paul." When I use my Christian name it works as though someone else spoke to me, it has more power. The darkness grows. My excitement subsides, I wait cautiously until the first rocket goes up. Then I crawl out of the shell-hole. I have forgotten the dead man. Before me lies the on-coming night and the pale gleaming field. I fix my eye on a shell-hole; the moment the light dies I scurry over into it, grope farther, spring into the next, duck down, scramble onward. I come nearer. There, by the light of a rocket I see something move in the wire, then it stiffens and lies still. Next time I see it again, yes, they are men from our trench. But I am suspicious until I recognize our helmets. Then I call. And immediately an answer rings out, my name:<\|quote\|>"Paul--Paul----"</\|quote\|>I call again in answer. It is Kat and Albert who have come out with a stretcher to look for me. "Are you wounded?" "No, no----" We drop into the trench. I ask for something to eat and wolf it down. Müller gives me a cigarette. In a few words I tell what happened. There is nothing new about it; it happens quite often. The night attack is the only unusual feature of the business. In Russia Kat once lay for two days behind the enemy lines before he could make his way back. I do not mention the dead printer. But by next morning I can keep it to myself no longer. I must tell Kat and Albert. They both try to calm me. "You can't do anything about it. What else could you have done? That is what you are here for." I listen to them and feel comforted, reassured by their presence. It was mere drivelling nonsense that I talked out there in the shell-hole. "Look there for instance," points Kat. On the fire-step stand some snipers. They rest their rifles with telescopic sights on the parapet and watch the enemy front. Once and again a shot cracks out. Then we hear the cry: "That's found a billet!" "Did you see how he leapt in the air?" Sergeant Oellrich turns round proudly and scores his point. He heads the shooting list for to-day with three unquestionable hits. "What do you say to that?" asks Kat. I nod. "If he keeps that up he will get a little coloured bird for his buttonhole by this evening," says Albert. "Or rather he will soon be made acting-sergeant-major," says Kat. We look at one another. "I would not do it," I say. "All the same," says Kat, "it's very good for you to see it just now." Sergeant Oellrich returns to the fire-step. The muzzle of his rifle searches to and fro. "You don't need to lose any more sleep over your affair," nods Albert. And now I hardly understand it myself any more. "It was only because I had to lie there with him so long," I say. "After all, war is war." Oellrich's rifle cracks out sharp and dry. CHAPTER X We have dropped in for a good job. Eight of us have to guard a village that has been abandoned because it is being shelled too heavily. In particular we have to watch the supply dump as that is not yet empty. We are supposed to provision ourselves from the same store. We are just the right people for that;--Kat, Albert, Müller, Tjaden, Detering, our whole gang is there. Haie is dead, though. But we are mighty lucky all the same, all the other squads have had more casualties than we have. We select, as a dug-out, a reinforced concrete cellar into which steps lead down from above. The entrance is protected by a separate concrete wall. Now we develop an immense industry. This is an opportunity not only to stretch one's legs, but to stretch one's soul also. We make the best use of such opportunities. The war is too desperate to allow us to be sentimental for long. That is only possible so long as things are not going too badly. After all, we cannot afford to be anything but matter-of-fact. So matter-of-fact, indeed, that I often shudder when a thought from the days before the war comes momentarily into my head. But it does not stay long. We have to take things as lightly as we can, so we make the most	All Quiet on the Western Front
"What is it?"	Leonce Pontellier	sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and	sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the	to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He	property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to	The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. "What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him. "You are burnt beyond recognition," he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier. "Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna," instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. "Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away. "Coming back to dinner?" his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company	was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the _pension_ had gone over to the _Ch ni re Caminada_ in Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's two children were there sturdy little fellows of four and five. A quadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative air. Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. "What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him. "You are burnt beyond recognition," he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier. "Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna," instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. "Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away. "Coming back to dinner?" his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein's and the size of "the game." He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him. Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts. II Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of contemplation or thought. Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certain frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her manner was engaging. Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his after-dinner smoke. This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was not unlike	THE AWAKENING I A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over: "_Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_ That's all right!" He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it was the mocking-bird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with maddening persistence. Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort, arose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust. He walked down the gallery and across the narrow "bridges" which connected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seated before the door of the main house. The parrot and the mocking-bird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their society when they ceased to be entertaining. He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task of reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old. The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New Orleans the day before. Mr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height and rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed. Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main building was called "the house," to distinguish it from the cottages. The chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls, the Farival twins, were playing a duet from "Zampa" upon the piano. Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the _pension_ had gone over to the _Ch ni re Caminada_ in Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's two children were there sturdy little fellows of four and five. A quadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative air. Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. "What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him. "You are burnt beyond recognition," he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier. "Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna," instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. "Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away. "Coming back to dinner?" his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein's and the size of "the game." He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him. Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts. II Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of contemplation or thought. Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certain frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her manner was engaging. Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his after-dinner smoke. This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was not unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more pronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of care upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the light and languor of the summer day. Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch and began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light puffs from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things around them; their amusing adventure out in the water it had again assumed its entertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people who had gone to the _Ch ni re;_ about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the Farival twins, who were now performing the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant." Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not know any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the same reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke of his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited him. He was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got there. Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile house in New Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French and Spanish gave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent. He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother at Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, "the house" had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by its dozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive visitors from the "_Quartier Fran ais_," it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright. Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father's Mississippi plantation and her girlhood home in the old Kentucky blue-grass country. She was an American woman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have been lost in dilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away in the East, and who had engaged herself to be married. Robert was interested, and wanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were, what the father was like, and how long the mother had been dead. When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for the	forty, of medium height and rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed. Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main building was called "the house," to distinguish it from the cottages. The chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls, the Farival twins, were playing a duet from "Zampa" upon the piano. Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the _pension_ had gone over to the _Ch ni re Caminada_ in Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's two children were there sturdy little fellows of four and five. A quadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative air. Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. "What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him. "You are burnt beyond recognition," he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.<\|quote\|>"What is it?"</\|quote\|>asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier. "Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna," instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. "Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away. "Coming back to dinner?" his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein's and the size of "the game." He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him. Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts. II Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of contemplation or thought. Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome than beautiful. Her	The Awakening
Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?	No speaker	Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>Jem Wimble gave Don another	again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before	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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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	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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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,	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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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	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. "Come in," 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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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	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. "Come in," 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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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 to you. How dare you charge him with such a crime?" "I did not charge him with any crime, my dear Laura," said the old merchant, gravely. "Then it is not true?" "It is true that I have been robbed, and that the man whom Lindon has persisted in making his companion, in spite of all I have said to the contrary, has charged him with the base, contemptible crime of robbing the master who trusted him." "But it is not true, Josiah; and that is what you always do, treat my poor boy as if he were your servant instead of your nephew--your sister's boy." "I treat Lindon as if he were my son when we are at home," said the old man, quietly. "When we are here at the office I treat him as my clerk, and I trust him to look after my interests, and to defend me from dishonest people." Don looked up, and it was on his lips to say, "Indeed, uncle, I always have done so," when the old man's next words seemed to chill and harden him. "But instead of doing his duty by me, I have constantly had to reprove him for making a companion of a man whom I weakly, and against my better judgment, allowed in the yard; and the result is I have been robbed, and this man accuses Lindon of committing the robbery, and bribing him to silence." "But it is not true, Josiah. My son could not be guilty of such a crime." "He will have every opportunity of disproving it before the magistrates," said Uncle Josiah, coldly. "Magistrates!--my boy?" exclaimed Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, no, no, no, brother; you will not proceed to such extremities as these. My boy before the magistrates. Impossible!" "The matter is out of my hands, now," said the old merchant, gravely. "I was bound to charge that scoundrel labourer with the theft. I could not tell that he would accuse your son of being the principal in the crime." "But you will stop it now for my sake, dear. Don, my boy, why do you not speak, and beg	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. "Come in," 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."<\|quote\|>Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say?</\|quote\|>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	Don Lavington
"You are very fond of her, then."	Margaret	person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible	Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at	I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a	you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." Margaret glanced out of the window. "By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t	deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." Margaret glanced out of the window. "By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?"	nearly everything that I want." "I told you nothing that was true." "It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?" "Helen, you wouldn t think I d invent that?" "I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. "But one loses faith in everything after this." "We thought it was illness, but even then--I haven t behaved worthily." Helen selected another book. "I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have thought of me?" She did not think of questioning her sister, or of rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed--that want of confidence that is the work of the devil. "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do." "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me." "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can t go through a great deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." Margaret glanced out of the window. "By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?" "No one." "I suppose you are letting it, though." "The house is dead," said Margaret, with a frown. "Why worry on about it?" "But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes own things." "Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can t go on like this. I warn you I won t. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?" "I don t hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I m not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your English life--no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street! It s unthinkable." Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly moving	each other anxiously. "No more does my sister, who is still many weeks from her confinement." "Margaret, Margaret!" "Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible use is he now?" Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a vague feeling that he must stand firm and support the doctor. He himself might need support, for there was trouble ahead. "It all turns on affection now," said Margaret. "Affection. Don t you see?" Resuming her usual methods, she wrote the word on the house with her finger. "Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you not so much. Mr. Mansbridge doesn t know her. That s all. And affection, when reciprocated, gives rights. Put that down in your note-book, Mr. Mansbridge. It s a useful formula." Henry told her to be calm. "You don t know what you want yourselves," said Margaret, folding her arms. "For one sensible remark I will let you in. But you cannot make it. You would trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it. I ll stand here all the day sooner." "Mansbridge," said Henry in a low voice, "perhaps not now." The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went back into the car. "Now, Henry, you," she said gently. None of her bitterness had been directed at him. "Go away now, dear. I shall want your advice later, no doubt. Forgive me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go." He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in a low voice to him. "I shall soon find you down at Dolly s," she called, as the gate at last clanged between them. The fly moved out of the way, the motor backed, turned a little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A string of farm carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all, for there was no hurry. When all was over and the car had started, she opened the door. "Oh, my darling!" she said. "My darling, forgive me." Helen was standing in the hall. CHAPTER XXXVII Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her, said: "Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that I want." "I told you nothing that was true." "It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?" "Helen, you wouldn t think I d invent that?" "I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. "But one loses faith in everything after this." "We thought it was illness, but even then--I haven t behaved worthily." Helen selected another book. "I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have thought of me?" She did not think of questioning her sister, or of rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed--that want of confidence that is the work of the devil. "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do." "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me." "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can t go through a great deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." Margaret glanced out of the window. "By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?" "No one." "I suppose you are letting it, though." "The house is dead," said Margaret, with a frown. "Why worry on about it?" "But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes own things." "Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can t go on like this. I warn you I won t. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?" "I don t hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I m not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your English life--no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street! It s unthinkable." Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not bitter or excitable, neither asserting innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the company of those who would not blame her. She had been through--how much? Margaret did not know. But it was enough to part her from old habits as well as old friends. "Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was lingering over the furniture. "There s nothing to tell." "But your marriage has been happy, Meg?" "Yes, but I don t feel inclined to talk." "You feel as I do." "Not that, but I can t." "No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying." Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection survived. "Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?" "You mean that you want to go away from me?" "I suppose so--dear old lady! it isn t any use. I knew we should have nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich later." "Certainly, dearest." "For that is all we can do." It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen s common sense; Monica had been extraordinarily good for her. "I am glad to have seen you and the things." She looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past. Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: "The car has gone, and here s your cab." She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, "Please, lady, a message," and handed her Henry s visiting-card through the bars. "How did this come?" she asked. Crane had returned with it almost at once. She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in domestic French. When she and her sister had talked she was to come back for the night to Dolly s. "Il faut dormir sur ce sujet." while Helen was to be found une comfortable chambre a l hotel. The final sentence displeased her greatly until she remembered that	is the work of the devil. "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do." "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me." "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can t go through a great deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich." Margaret glanced out of the window. "By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through."<\|quote\|>"You are very fond of her, then."</\|quote\|>"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?" "No one." "I suppose you are letting it, though." "The house is dead," said Margaret, with a frown. "Why worry on about it?" "But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes own things." "Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can t go on like this. I warn you I won t. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?" "I don t hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I m not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your English life--no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street! It s unthinkable." Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not bitter or excitable, neither asserting innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the company of those who would not blame her. She had been through--how much? Margaret did not know. But it was enough to part her from old habits as well as old friends. "Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was lingering over the furniture. "There s nothing to tell." "But your marriage has been happy, Meg?" "Yes, but I don t feel inclined to talk." "You feel as I do." "Not that, but I can t." "No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying." Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection survived. "Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?" "You mean that you want to go away from me?" "I suppose so--dear old lady! it isn t any use. I knew we should have nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby,	Howards End
When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:	No speaker	him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have	know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this	"At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to	preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank	Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this morning that she would never see me again." She spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in."	breast, and invoked the name of God, she would have summoned forth his imagination and generosity he had plenty of both. But while relieving the Oriental mind, she had chilled it, with the result that he could scarcely believe she was sincere, and indeed from his standpoint she was not. For her behaviour rested on cold justice and honesty; she had felt, while she recanted, no passion of love for those whom she had wronged. Truth is not truth in that exacting land unless there go with it kindness and more kindness and kindness again, unless the Word that was with God also is God. And the girl's sacrifice so creditable according to Western notions was rightly rejected, because, though it came from her heart, it did not include her heart. A few garlands from students was all that India ever gave her in return. "But where is she to have her dinner, where is she to sleep? I say here, here, and if she is hit on the head by roughs, she is hit on the head. That is my contribution. Well, Miss Quested?" "You are very kind. I should have said yes, I think, but I agree with Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this morning that she would never see me again." She spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's	possibilities will take you some time" here he put his arm over the Englishman's shoulder and swayed him to and fro gently "don't you think you had better come out to the Nawab Bahadur's or I should say to Mr. Zulfiqar's, for that is the name he now requires us to call him by." "Gladly, in a minute . . ." "I have just settled my movements," said Miss Quested. "I shall go to the Dak Bungalow." "Not the Turtons'?" said Hamidullah, goggle-eyed. "I thought you were their guest." The Dak Bungalow of Chandrapore was below the average, and certainly servantless. Fielding, though he continued to sway with Hamidullah, was thinking on independent lines, and said in a moment: "I have a better idea than that, Miss Quested. You must stop here at the College. I shall be away at least two days, and you can have the place entirely to yourself, and make your plans at your convenience." "I don't agree at all," said Hamidullah, with every symptom of dismay. "The idea is a thoroughly bad one. There may quite well be another demonstration to-night, and suppose an attack is made on the College. You would be held responsible for this lady's safety, my dear fellow." "They might equally attack the Dak Bungalow." "Exactly, but the responsibility there ceases to be yours." "Quite so. I have given trouble enough." "Do you hear? The lady admits it herself. It's not an attack from our people I fear you should see their orderly conduct at the hospital; what we must guard against is an attack secretly arranged by the police for the purpose of discrediting you. McBryde keeps plenty of roughs for this purpose, and this would be the very opportunity for him." "Never mind. She is not going to the Dak Bungalow," said Fielding. He had a natural sympathy for the down-trodden that was partly why he rallied from Aziz and had become determined not to leave the poor girl in the lurch. Also, he had a new-born respect for her, consequent on their talk. Although her hard schoolmistressy manner remained, she was no longer examining life, but being examined by it; she had become a real person. "Then where is she to go? We shall never have done with her!" For Miss Quested had not appealed to Hamidullah. If she had shown emotion in court, broke down, beat her breast, and invoked the name of God, she would have summoned forth his imagination and generosity he had plenty of both. But while relieving the Oriental mind, she had chilled it, with the result that he could scarcely believe she was sincere, and indeed from his standpoint she was not. For her behaviour rested on cold justice and honesty; she had felt, while she recanted, no passion of love for those whom she had wronged. Truth is not truth in that exacting land unless there go with it kindness and more kindness and kindness again, unless the Word that was with God also is God. And the girl's sacrifice so creditable according to Western notions was rightly rejected, because, though it came from her heart, it did not include her heart. A few garlands from students was all that India ever gave her in return. "But where is she to have her dinner, where is she to sleep? I say here, here, and if she is hit on the head by roughs, she is hit on the head. That is my contribution. Well, Miss Quested?" "You are very kind. I should have said yes, I think, but I agree with Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this morning that she would never see me again." She spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular. "I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?" "I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your	for those whom she had wronged. Truth is not truth in that exacting land unless there go with it kindness and more kindness and kindness again, unless the Word that was with God also is God. And the girl's sacrifice so creditable according to Western notions was rightly rejected, because, though it came from her heart, it did not include her heart. A few garlands from students was all that India ever gave her in return. "But where is she to have her dinner, where is she to sleep? I say here, here, and if she is hit on the head by roughs, she is hit on the head. That is my contribution. Well, Miss Quested?" "You are very kind. I should have said yes, I think, but I agree with Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this morning that she would never see me again." She spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer."<\|quote\|>When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly:</\|quote\|>"Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to	A Passage To India
Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.	No speaker	know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a	see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one	her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of	some strain of the South's chivalric blood, which is so curiously mingled with the African in the veins of most coloured people, had tinged her skin to an olive hue. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he leaned over and whispered to her. His voice was very confidential and his lips near her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of work, Miss Hamilton, whenever you can keep old Bill from goin' out an' lushin' between acts. Say, you got a good thing; push it along." The girl's mother half rose, but she resumed her seat, for the man was going away. Her mind was not quiet again, however, until the	speak to him, smile at him! If ever a man was intoxicated, Joe was. Mrs. Hamilton was divided between shame at the clothes of some of the women and delight with the music. Her companion was busy pointing out who this and that actress was, and giving jelly-like appreciation to the doings on the stage. Mr. Thomas was the only cool one in the party. He was quietly taking stock of his young companion,--of her innocence and charm. She was a pretty girl, little and dainty, but well developed for her age. Her hair was very black and wavy, and some strain of the South's chivalric blood, which is so curiously mingled with the African in the veins of most coloured people, had tinged her skin to an olive hue. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he leaned over and whispered to her. His voice was very confidential and his lips near her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of work, Miss Hamilton, whenever you can keep old Bill from goin' out an' lushin' between acts. Say, you got a good thing; push it along." The girl's mother half rose, but she resumed her seat, for the man was going away. Her mind was not quiet again, however, until the people were all in their seats and the curtain had gone up on the second act. At first she was surprised at the enthusiasm over just such dancing as she could see any day from the loafers on the street corners down home, and then, like a good, sensible, humble woman, she came around to the idea that it was she who had always been wrong in putting too low a value on really worthy things. So she laughed and applauded with the rest, all the while trying to quiet something that was tugging at her away down in her	white, pale yellow, and sickly greens to brick reds and slate grays. They were dressed in costumes that were not primarily intended for picnic going. But they could sing, and they did sing, with their voices, their bodies, their souls. They threw themselves into it because they enjoyed and felt what they were doing, and they gave almost a semblance of dignity to the tawdry music and inane words. Kitty was enchanted. The airily dressed women seemed to her like creatures from fairy-land. It is strange how the glare of the footlights succeeds in deceiving so many people who are able to see through other delusions. The cheap dresses on the street had not fooled Kitty for an instant, but take the same cheese-cloth, put a little water starch into it, and put it on the stage, and she could see only chiffon. She turned around and nodded delightedly at her brother, but he did not see her. He was lost, transfixed. His soul was floating on a sea of sense. He had eyes and ears and thoughts only for the stage. His nerves tingled and his hands twitched. Only to know one of those radiant creatures, to have her speak to him, smile at him! If ever a man was intoxicated, Joe was. Mrs. Hamilton was divided between shame at the clothes of some of the women and delight with the music. Her companion was busy pointing out who this and that actress was, and giving jelly-like appreciation to the doings on the stage. Mr. Thomas was the only cool one in the party. He was quietly taking stock of his young companion,--of her innocence and charm. She was a pretty girl, little and dainty, but well developed for her age. Her hair was very black and wavy, and some strain of the South's chivalric blood, which is so curiously mingled with the African in the veins of most coloured people, had tinged her skin to an olive hue. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he leaned over and whispered to her. His voice was very confidential and his lips near her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of work, Miss Hamilton, whenever you can keep old Bill from goin' out an' lushin' between acts. Say, you got a good thing; push it along." The girl's mother half rose, but she resumed her seat, for the man was going away. Her mind was not quiet again, however, until the people were all in their seats and the curtain had gone up on the second act. At first she was surprised at the enthusiasm over just such dancing as she could see any day from the loafers on the street corners down home, and then, like a good, sensible, humble woman, she came around to the idea that it was she who had always been wrong in putting too low a value on really worthy things. So she laughed and applauded with the rest, all the while trying to quiet something that was tugging at her away down in her heart. When the performance was over she forced her way to Kitty's side, where she remained in spite of all Thomas's palpable efforts to get her away. Finally he proposed that they all go to supper at one of the coloured cafes. "You 'll see a lot o' the show people," he said. "No, I reckon we 'd bettah go home," said Mrs. Hamilton decidedly. "De chillen ain't ust to stayin' up all hours o' nights, an' I ain't anxious fu' 'em to git ust to it." She was conscious of a growing dislike for this man who treated her daughter with such a proprietary air. Joe winced again at "de chillen." Thomas bit his lip, and mentally said things that are unfit for publication. Aloud he said, "Mebbe Miss Kitty 'ud like to go an' have a little lunch." "Oh, no, thank you," said the girl; "I 've had a nice time and I don't care for a thing to eat." Joe told himself that Kitty was the biggest fool that it had ever been his lot to meet, and the disappointed suitor satisfied himself with the reflection that the girl was green yet, but would get bravely over	broke out on his brow, but instantly he began to swell. He had made a decided advance in knowledge, and he swelled with the consciousness that already he was coming to be a man of the world. He looked with a new feeling at the swaggering, sporty young negroes. His attitude towards them was not one of humble self-depreciation any more. Since last night he had grown, and felt that he might, that he would, be like them, and it put a sort of chuckling glee into his heart. One might find it in him to feel sorry for this small-souled, warped being, for he was so evidently the jest of Fate, if it were not that he was so blissfully, so conceitedly, unconscious of his own nastiness. Down home he had shaved the wild young bucks of the town, and while doing it drunk in eagerly their unguarded narrations of their gay exploits. So he had started out with false ideals as to what was fine and manly. He was afflicted by a sort of moral and mental astigmatism that made him see everything wrong. As he sat there to-night, he gave to all he saw a wrong value and upon it based his ignorant desires. When the men of the orchestra filed in and began tuning their instruments, it was the signal for an influx of loiterers from the door. There were a large number of coloured people in the audience, and because members of their own race were giving the performance, they seemed to take a proprietary interest in it all. They discussed its merits and demerits as they walked down the aisle in much the same tone that the owners would have used had they been wondering whether the entertainment was going to please the people or not. Finally the music struck up one of the numerous negro marches. It was accompanied by the rhythmic patting of feet from all parts of the house. Then the curtain went up on a scene of beauty. It purported to be a grove to which a party of picnickers, the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus, had come for a holiday, and they were telling the audience all about it in crescendos. With the exception of one, who looked like a faded kid glove, the men discarded the grease paint, but the women under their make-ups ranged from pure white, pale yellow, and sickly greens to brick reds and slate grays. They were dressed in costumes that were not primarily intended for picnic going. But they could sing, and they did sing, with their voices, their bodies, their souls. They threw themselves into it because they enjoyed and felt what they were doing, and they gave almost a semblance of dignity to the tawdry music and inane words. Kitty was enchanted. The airily dressed women seemed to her like creatures from fairy-land. It is strange how the glare of the footlights succeeds in deceiving so many people who are able to see through other delusions. The cheap dresses on the street had not fooled Kitty for an instant, but take the same cheese-cloth, put a little water starch into it, and put it on the stage, and she could see only chiffon. She turned around and nodded delightedly at her brother, but he did not see her. He was lost, transfixed. His soul was floating on a sea of sense. He had eyes and ears and thoughts only for the stage. His nerves tingled and his hands twitched. Only to know one of those radiant creatures, to have her speak to him, smile at him! If ever a man was intoxicated, Joe was. Mrs. Hamilton was divided between shame at the clothes of some of the women and delight with the music. Her companion was busy pointing out who this and that actress was, and giving jelly-like appreciation to the doings on the stage. Mr. Thomas was the only cool one in the party. He was quietly taking stock of his young companion,--of her innocence and charm. She was a pretty girl, little and dainty, but well developed for her age. Her hair was very black and wavy, and some strain of the South's chivalric blood, which is so curiously mingled with the African in the veins of most coloured people, had tinged her skin to an olive hue. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he leaned over and whispered to her. His voice was very confidential and his lips near her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of work, Miss Hamilton, whenever you can keep old Bill from goin' out an' lushin' between acts. Say, you got a good thing; push it along." The girl's mother half rose, but she resumed her seat, for the man was going away. Her mind was not quiet again, however, until the people were all in their seats and the curtain had gone up on the second act. At first she was surprised at the enthusiasm over just such dancing as she could see any day from the loafers on the street corners down home, and then, like a good, sensible, humble woman, she came around to the idea that it was she who had always been wrong in putting too low a value on really worthy things. So she laughed and applauded with the rest, all the while trying to quiet something that was tugging at her away down in her heart. When the performance was over she forced her way to Kitty's side, where she remained in spite of all Thomas's palpable efforts to get her away. Finally he proposed that they all go to supper at one of the coloured cafes. "You 'll see a lot o' the show people," he said. "No, I reckon we 'd bettah go home," said Mrs. Hamilton decidedly. "De chillen ain't ust to stayin' up all hours o' nights, an' I ain't anxious fu' 'em to git ust to it." She was conscious of a growing dislike for this man who treated her daughter with such a proprietary air. Joe winced again at "de chillen." Thomas bit his lip, and mentally said things that are unfit for publication. Aloud he said, "Mebbe Miss Kitty 'ud like to go an' have a little lunch." "Oh, no, thank you," said the girl; "I 've had a nice time and I don't care for a thing to eat." Joe told himself that Kitty was the biggest fool that it had ever been his lot to meet, and the disappointed suitor satisfied himself with the reflection that the girl was green yet, but would get bravely over that. He attempted to hold her hand as they parted at the parlour door, but she drew her fingers out of his clasp and said, "Good-night; thank you," as if he had been one of her mother's old friends. Joe lingered a little longer. "Say, that was out o' sight," he said. "Think so?" asked the other carelessly. "I 'd like to get out with you some time to see the town," the boy went on eagerly. "All right, we 'll go some time. So long." "So long." Some time. Was it true? Would he really take him out and let him meet stage people? Joe went to bed with his head in a whirl. He slept little that night for thinking of his heart's desire. IX HIS HEART'S DESIRE Whatever else his visit to the theatre may have done for Joe, it inspired him with a desire to go to work and earn money of his own, to be independent both of parental help and control, and so be able to spend as he pleased. With this end in view he set out to hunt for work. It was a pleasant contrast to his last similar quest, and he felt it with joy. He was treated everywhere he went with courtesy, even when no situation was forthcoming. Finally he came upon a man who was willing to try him for an afternoon. From the moment the boy rightly considered himself engaged, for he was master of his trade. He began his work with heart elate. Now he had within his grasp the possibility of being all that he wanted to be. Now Thomas might take him out at any time and not be ashamed of him. With Thomas, the fact that Joe was working put the boy in an entirely new light. He decided that now he might be worth cultivating. For a week or two he had ignored him, and, proceeding upon the principle that if you give corn to the old hen she will cluck to her chicks, had treated Mrs. Hamilton with marked deference and kindness. This had been without success, as both the girl and her mother held themselves politely aloof from him. He began to see that his hope of winning Kitty's affections lay, not in courting the older woman but in making a friend of the boy. So on a certain Saturday night	the footlights succeeds in deceiving so many people who are able to see through other delusions. The cheap dresses on the street had not fooled Kitty for an instant, but take the same cheese-cloth, put a little water starch into it, and put it on the stage, and she could see only chiffon. She turned around and nodded delightedly at her brother, but he did not see her. He was lost, transfixed. His soul was floating on a sea of sense. He had eyes and ears and thoughts only for the stage. His nerves tingled and his hands twitched. Only to know one of those radiant creatures, to have her speak to him, smile at him! If ever a man was intoxicated, Joe was. Mrs. Hamilton was divided between shame at the clothes of some of the women and delight with the music. Her companion was busy pointing out who this and that actress was, and giving jelly-like appreciation to the doings on the stage. Mr. Thomas was the only cool one in the party. He was quietly taking stock of his young companion,--of her innocence and charm. She was a pretty girl, little and dainty, but well developed for her age. Her hair was very black and wavy, and some strain of the South's chivalric blood, which is so curiously mingled with the African in the veins of most coloured people, had tinged her skin to an olive hue. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he leaned over and whispered to her. His voice was very confidential and his lips near her ear, but she did not notice. "Oh, yes," she answered, "this is grand. How I 'd like to be an actress and be up there!" "Maybe you will some day." "Oh, no, I 'm not smart enough." "We 'll see," he said wisely; "I know a thing or two."<\|quote\|>Between the first and second acts a number of Thomas's friends strolled up to where he sat and began talking, and again Kitty's embarrassment took possession of her as they were introduced one by one. They treated her with a half-courteous familiarity that made her blush. Her mother was not pleased with the many acquaintances that her daughter was making, and would have interfered had not Mrs. Jones assured her that the men clustered about their host's seat were some of the "best people in town." Joe looked at them hungrily, but the man in front with his sister did not think it necessary to include the brother or the rest of the party in his miscellaneous introductions. One brief bit of conversation which the mother overheard especially troubled her.</\|quote\|>"Not going out for a minute or two?" asked one of the men, as he was turning away from Thomas. "No, I don't think I 'll go out to-night. You can have my share." The fellow gave a horse laugh and replied, "Well, you 're doing a great piece of work, Miss Hamilton, whenever you can keep old Bill from goin' out an' lushin' between acts. Say, you got a good thing; push it along." The girl's mother half rose, but she resumed her seat, for the man was going away. Her mind was not quiet again, however, until the people were all in their seats and the curtain had gone up on the second act. At first she was surprised at the enthusiasm over just such dancing as she could see any day from the loafers on the street corners down home, and then, like a good, sensible, humble woman, she came around to the idea that it was she who had always been wrong in putting too low a value on really worthy things. So she laughed and applauded with the rest, all the while trying to quiet something that was tugging at her away down in her heart. When the performance was over she forced her way to Kitty's side, where she remained in spite of all Thomas's palpable efforts to get her away. Finally he proposed that they all go to supper at one of the coloured cafes. "You 'll see a lot o' the show people," he said. "No, I reckon we 'd bettah go home," said Mrs. Hamilton decidedly. "De chillen ain't ust to stayin' up all hours o' nights, an' I ain't anxious fu' 'em to git ust to it." She was conscious of a growing dislike for this man who treated her daughter with such a proprietary air. Joe winced again at "de chillen." Thomas bit his lip, and mentally said things that are unfit for publication. Aloud he said, "Mebbe Miss Kitty 'ud like to go an' have a little lunch." "Oh, no, thank you," said the girl; "I 've had a nice time and I don't care for a thing to eat." Joe told himself that Kitty was the biggest fool that it had ever been his lot to meet, and the disappointed suitor satisfied himself with the reflection that the girl was green yet, but would get bravely over that. He attempted to hold her hand as they parted at the parlour door, but she drew her fingers out of his clasp and said, "Good-night; thank you," as if he had been one of her mother's old friends. Joe lingered a little longer. "Say, that was out o' sight," he said. "Think so?"	The Sport Of The Gods
"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."	Charlotte	extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor,	dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of	from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my	a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give	She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and	the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won t. Don t you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me." "There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world." She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately." "And what did the Colonel say?" "Oh he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?" "Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?" "Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing." "So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says _he_ was in love with your sister too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said Elinor. "Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people	rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do, and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful! My love," applying to her husband, "don t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?" "Certainly," he replied, with a sneer "I came into Devonshire with no other view." "There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won t. Don t you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking." "No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all your abuses of language upon me." "There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world." She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately." "And what did the Colonel say?" "Oh he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?" "Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?" "Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing." "So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says _he_ was in love with your sister too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said Elinor. "Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don t think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night." Mrs. Palmer s information respecting Willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her. "I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte. "And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can t think how much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts." "You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?" "Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a particular friend of Sir John s. I believe," she added in a low voice, "he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately." "Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John s proposal to your mother before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?" "Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is the kind of man I like." CHAPTER XXI. The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day,	is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world." She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable." "Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come to Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;<\|quote\|>"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."</\|quote\|>"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." "Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." "My dear Mrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately." "And what did the Colonel say?" "Oh he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?" "Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?" "Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing." "So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says _he_ was in love with your sister too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body." "Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said Elinor. "Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that	Sense And Sensibility
"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"	Henry	He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A	Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money	I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us.	in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn t." "--and needn t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says reduced," corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider the battle of life a happy expression." "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you re not to blame. No one s to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn t say that, but you re taking it far too seriously. Who is	some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems." But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. "Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--" she began and went scarlet all over her face. "It s all right," called Margaret, catching them up. "Dempster s Bank s better." "But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before Christmas." "Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn t." "--and needn t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says reduced," corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider the battle of life a happy expression." "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you re not to blame. No one s to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn t say that, but you re taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow?" "We have told you about the fellow twice already," said Helen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We--we, the upper classes--thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge--and here s the result!" He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice." "I require no more advice." "A word of advice. Don t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one s sorry for them, but	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 bark for toothache." "What a rum notion! Of course not!" "Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems." But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. "Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--" she began and went scarlet all over her face. "It s all right," called Margaret, catching them up. "Dempster s Bank s better." "But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before Christmas." "Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn t." "--and needn t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says reduced," corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider the battle of life a happy expression." "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you re not to blame. No one s to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn t say that, but you re taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow?" "We have told you about the fellow twice already," said Helen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We--we, the upper classes--thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge--and here s the result!" He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice." "I require no more advice." "A word of advice. Don t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one s sorry for them, but there it is. As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it s absurd to pretend that any one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk s loss of salary. It s just the shoe pinching--no one can help it; and it might easily have been worse." Helen quivered with indignation. "By all means subscribe to charities--subscribe to them largely--but don t get carried away by absurd schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind the scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no Social Question--except for a few journalists who try to get a living out of the phrase. There are just rich and poor, as there always have been and always will be. Point me out a time when men have been equal--" "I didn t say--" "Point me out a time when desire for equality has made them happier. No, no. You can t. There always have been rich and poor. I m no fatalist. Heaven forbid! But our civilisation is moulded by great impersonal	"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 bark for toothache." "What a rum notion! Of course not!" "Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems." But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. "Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--" she began and went scarlet all over her face. "It s all right," called Margaret, catching them up. "Dempster s Bank s better." "But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before Christmas." "Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn t." "--and needn t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says reduced," corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider the battle of life a happy expression." "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you re not to blame. No one s to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn t say that, but you re taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow?" "We have told you about the fellow twice already," said Helen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We--we, the upper classes--thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge--and here s the result!" He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice." "I require no more advice." "A word of advice. Don t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one s sorry for them, but there it is. As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it s absurd to pretend that any one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk s loss of salary. It s just the shoe pinching--no one can help it; and it might easily have been worse." Helen quivered with indignation. "By all means subscribe to charities--subscribe to them largely--but don t get carried away by absurd schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind the scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no Social Question--except for a few journalists who try to get a living out of the phrase. There are just rich and poor, as there always have been and always will be. Point me out a time when men have been equal--" "I didn t say--" "Point me out a time when desire for equality has made them happier. No, no. You can t. There always have been rich and poor. I m no fatalist. Heaven forbid! But our civilisation is moulded by great impersonal forces" (his voice grew complacent; it always did when he eliminated the personal), "and there always will be rich and poor. You can t deny it" (and now it was a respectful voice)--" "and you can t deny that, in spite of all, the tendency of civilisation has on the whole been upward." "Owing to God, I suppose," flashed Helen. He stared at her. "You grab the dollars. God does the rest." It was no good instructing the girl if she was going to talk about God in that neurotic modern way. Fraternal to the last, he left her for the quieter company of Mrs. Munt. He thought, "She rather reminds me of Dolly." Helen looked out at the sea. "Don t ever discuss political economy with Henry," advised her sister. "It ll only end in a cry." "But he must be one of those men who have reconciled science with religion," said Helen slowly. "I don t like those men. They are scientific themselves, and talk of the survival of the fittest, and cut down the salaries of their clerks, and stunt the independence of all who may menace their comfort, but yet they believe that somehow good--it is always that sloppy somehow will be the outcome, and that in some mystical way the Mr. Basts of the future will benefit because the Mr. Brits of today are in pain." "He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in theory!" "But oh, Meg, what a theory!" "Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?" "Because I m an old maid," said Helen, biting her lip. "I can t think why I go on like this myself." She shook off her sister s hand and went into the house. Margaret, distressed at the day s beginning, followed the Bournemouth steamer with her eyes. She saw that Helen s nerves were exasperated by the unlucky Bast business beyond the bounds of politeness. There might at any minute be a real explosion, which even Henry would notice. Henry must be removed. "Margaret!" her aunt called. "Magsy! It isn t true, surely, what Mr. Wilcox says, that you want to go away early next week?" "Not want," was Margaret s prompt reply; "but there is so much to be settled, and I do want to see the Charles s." "But going away without taking the Weymouth trip, or even the Lulworth?"	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 bark for toothache." "What a rum notion! Of course not!" "Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems." But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. "Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--" she began and went scarlet all over her face. "It s all right," called Margaret, catching them up. "Dempster s Bank s better." "But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before Christmas." "Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn t." "--and needn t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says reduced," corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What s that? Do you mean that I m responsible?" "You re ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch.<\|quote\|>"Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen--"</\|quote\|>"Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that s mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day s work. It s part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider the battle of life a happy expression." "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you re not to blame. No one s to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn t say that, but you re taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow?" "We have told you about the fellow twice already," said Helen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We--we, the upper classes--thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge--and here s the result!" He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice." "I require no more advice." "A word of advice. Don t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one s sorry for them, but there it is. As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it s absurd to pretend that any one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk s loss of salary. It s just the shoe pinching--no one can help it; and it might easily have been worse." Helen quivered with indignation. "By all means subscribe to charities--subscribe to them largely--but don t get carried away by absurd schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind the scenes, and	Howards End
"Cousin,"	Fanny Price	she told him her distress.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "something is going	as she met with Edmund she told him her distress.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "something is going to happen which I do	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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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."	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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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	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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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	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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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	his 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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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	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.<\|quote\|>"Cousin,"</\|quote\|>said she, "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	Mansfield Park
"Dunno,"	Jem Wimble	Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd	s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's	that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all	"Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to	it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this."	he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this." "Yes; it's all right," he said, after puffing and blowing down by the ground. "Rum, arn't it, that the air should be bad yonder and not close in here!" "The cave goes downward," said Don; "and the foul air lies in the bottom, just as it does in a well. Do you think he's dead?" "Him dead!" said Jem, contemptuously; "I don't believe you could kill a thing like that. Here, let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem	the floor diagonally. As he paused, he felt that it might be a "fault" of a few inches in width or depth, or a vast chasm going right down into the bowels of the mountain! "There's a hole here," he whispered to Jem. "Hold my hand." Jem gripped him firmly, and he reached out with one leg, and felt over the side outward and downward; and, just as he was coming to the conclusion that the place was terribly deep, and a shudder at the danger was running through him, he found that he could touch bottom. He was in the act of recovering himself, so as to try how wide the crack or fault might be, when a peculiar strangling sensation attacked him, and he felt that he was falling. The next thing he felt was Jem's lips to his ear, and feeling his whisper,-- "Hold on, lad. What's the matter?" He panted and drew his breath in a catching way for a few minutes before whispering back,-- "Nothing. Only a sudden giddiness." Jem made no comment, but gripped his hand tightly, and they stood listening, for the shadow cast faintly on the walls was motionless, and it was evident that their enemy was listening. "I'm going on, Ramsden," said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this." "Yes; it's all right," he said, after puffing and blowing down by the ground. "Rum, arn't it, that the air should be bad yonder and not close in here!" "The cave goes downward," said Don; "and the foul air lies in the bottom, just as it does in a well. Do you think he's dead?" "Him dead!" said Jem, contemptuously; "I don't believe you could kill a thing like that. Here, let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden's head round, so that the wind blew in his face. "How I should like to jump on him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh	said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?"<\|quote\|>"Dunno,"</\|quote\|>said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this." "Yes; it's all right," he said, after puffing and blowing down by the ground. "Rum, arn't it, that the air should be bad yonder and not close in here!" "The cave goes downward," said Don; "and the foul air lies in the bottom, just as it does in a well. Do you think he's dead?" "Him dead!" said Jem, contemptuously; "I don't believe you could kill a thing like that. Here, let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden's head round, so that the wind blew in his face. "How I should like to jump on him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did	Don Lavington
"Then what do you mean?"	Cyril Fielding	mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian	the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole.	servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop	last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and	him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart	of the law. "I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, "I suppose nothing that's said inside the club will go outside the club?" winking the while at Lesley. "Why should it?" responded Lesley. "Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, at least not in this country." "Does anyone here present want to?" Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He had something to say, but it should be at his own moment. The attack failed to mature, because the Collector did not support it. Attention shifted from him for a time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The door had been opened by Ronny. The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also gentler than usual. He always showed deference to his superiors, but now it came straight from his heart. He seemed to appeal for their protection in the insult that had befallen him,	but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. "Act upon that fact until there are more facts," he concluded. "Assume every Indian is an angel." They murmured, "Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?" "Temperature." "My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me." At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law. "I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, "I suppose nothing that's said inside the club will go outside the club?" winking the while at Lesley. "Why should it?" responded Lesley. "Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, at least not in this country." "Does anyone here present want to?" Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He had something to say, but it should be at his own moment. The attack failed to mature, because the Collector did not support it. Attention shifted from him for a time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The door had been opened by Ronny. The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also gentler than usual. He always showed deference to his superiors, but now it came straight from his heart. He seemed to appeal for their protection in the insult that had befallen him, and they, in instinctive homage, rose to their feet. But every human act in the East is tainted with officialism, and while honouring him they condemned Aziz and India. Fielding realized this, and he remained seated. It was an ungracious, a caddish thing to do, perhaps an unsound thing to do, but he felt he had been passive long enough, and that he might be drawn into the wrong current if he did not make a stand. Ronny, who had not seen him, said in husky tones, "Oh please please all sit down, I only want to listen what has been decided." "Heaslop, I'm telling them I'm against any show of force," said the Collector apologetically. "I don't know whether you will feel as I do, but that is how I am situated. When the verdict is obtained, it will be another matter." "You are sure to know best; I have no experience, Burra Sahib." "How is your mother, old boy?" "Better, thank you. I wish everyone would sit down." "Some have never got up," the young soldier said. "And the Major brings us an excellent report of Miss Quested," Turton went on. "I do, I do, I'm satisfied." "You thought badly of her earlier, did you not, Major? That's why I refused bail." Callendar laughed with friendly inwardness, and said, "Heaslop, Heaslop, next time bail's wanted, ring up the old doctor before giving it; his shoulders are broad, and, speaking in the strictest confidence, don't take the old doctor's opinion too seriously. He's a blithering idiot, we can always leave it at that, but he'll do the little he can towards keeping in quod the" He broke off with affected politeness. "Oh, but he has one of his friends here." The subaltern called, "Stand up, you swine." "Mr. Fielding, what has prevented you from standing up?" said the Collector, entering the fray at last. It was the attack for which Fielding had waited, and to which he must reply. "May I make a statement, sir?" "Certainly." Seasoned and self-contained, devoid of the fervours of nationality or youth, the schoolmaster did what was for him a comparatively easy thing. He stood up and said, "I believe Dr. Aziz to be innocent." "You have a right to hold that opinion if you choose, but pray is that any reason why you should insult Mr. Heaslop?" "May I conclude my statement?" "Certainly."	not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding."<\|quote\|>"Then what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, "I suppose nothing that's said inside the club will go outside the club?" winking the while at Lesley. "Why should it?" responded Lesley. "Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, at least not in this country." "Does anyone here present want to?" Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He had something to say, but it should be at his own moment. The attack failed to mature, because the Collector did not support it. Attention shifted from him for a time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The door had been opened by Ronny. The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also gentler than usual. He always showed deference to his superiors, but now it came straight from his heart. He seemed to appeal for their protection in the insult that had befallen him, and they, in instinctive homage, rose to their feet. But every human act in the East is tainted with officialism, and while honouring him they condemned Aziz and India. Fielding realized this, and he remained seated. It was an	A Passage To India
"What is the matter?"	Colonel Ducroix	"I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has	that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There	back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of	and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now	enemy of all creation. "After all," he said to himself, "I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do I can die," and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train. He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train." "I protest that this is most irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to	neck below the jaw. It came out clean. Half mad, he thrust again, and made what should have been a bloody scar on the Marquis's cheek. But there was no scar. For one moment the heaven of Syme again grew black with supernatural terrors. Surely the man had a charmed life. But this new spiritual dread was a more awful thing than had been the mere spiritual topsy-turvydom symbolised by the paralytic who pursued him. The Professor was only a goblin; this man was a devil perhaps he was the Devil! Anyhow, this was certain, that three times had a human sword been driven into him and made no mark. When Syme had that thought he drew himself up, and all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees. He thought of all the human things in his story of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl's red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by. Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation. "After all," he said to himself, "I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do I can die," and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train. He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train." "I protest that this is most irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don't be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!" and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill. Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand. He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene. The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice. "If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow," he said, "he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It's the kind of thing that might come in useful any day," and he gravely tore off	streak of blood, but it either was not noticed or was tacitly ignored. Every now and then he _riposted_, and once or twice he could almost fancy that he felt his point go home, but as there was no blood on blade or shirt he supposed he was mistaken. Then came an interruption and a change. At the risk of losing all, the Marquis, interrupting his quiet stare, flashed one glance over his shoulder at the line of railway on his right. Then he turned on Syme a face transfigured to that of a fiend, and began to fight as if with twenty weapons. The attack came so fast and furious, that the one shining sword seemed a shower of shining arrows. Syme had no chance to look at the railway; but also he had no need. He could guess the reason of the Marquis's sudden madness of battle the Paris train was in sight. But the Marquis's morbid energy over-reached itself. Twice Syme, parrying, knocked his opponent's point far out of the fighting circle; and the third time his _riposte_ was so rapid, that there was no doubt about the hit this time. Syme's sword actually bent under the weight of the Marquis's body, which it had pierced. Syme was as certain that he had stuck his blade into his enemy as a gardener that he has stuck his spade into the ground. Yet the Marquis sprang back from the stroke without a stagger, and Syme stood staring at his own sword-point like an idiot. There was no blood on it at all. There was an instant of rigid silence, and then Syme in his turn fell furiously on the other, filled with a flaming curiosity. The Marquis was probably, in a general sense, a better fencer than he, as he had surmised at the beginning, but at the moment the Marquis seemed distraught and at a disadvantage. He fought wildly and even weakly, and he constantly looked away at the railway line, almost as if he feared the train more than the pointed steel. Syme, on the other hand, fought fiercely but still carefully, in an intellectual fury, eager to solve the riddle of his own bloodless sword. For this purpose, he aimed less at the Marquis's body, and more at his throat and head. A minute and a half afterwards he felt his point enter the man's neck below the jaw. It came out clean. Half mad, he thrust again, and made what should have been a bloody scar on the Marquis's cheek. But there was no scar. For one moment the heaven of Syme again grew black with supernatural terrors. Surely the man had a charmed life. But this new spiritual dread was a more awful thing than had been the mere spiritual topsy-turvydom symbolised by the paralytic who pursued him. The Professor was only a goblin; this man was a devil perhaps he was the Devil! Anyhow, this was certain, that three times had a human sword been driven into him and made no mark. When Syme had that thought he drew himself up, and all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees. He thought of all the human things in his story of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl's red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by. Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation. "After all," he said to himself, "I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do I can die," and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train. He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train." "I protest that this is most irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don't be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!" and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill. Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand. He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene. The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice. "If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow," he said, "he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It's the kind of thing that might come in useful any day," and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage. "If I had known," he spluttered, "that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight" "Oh, I know, I know!" said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. "You are making a mistake; but it can't be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!" "Yes," said Dr. Bull fiercely, "and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil's work" The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath. "Will you drive me mad?" he cried. "The train" "You shall not go by the train," said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword. The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking. "You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken, doddering, damned fool!" he said without taking breath. "You great silly, pink-faced, towheaded turnip! You" "You shall not go by this train," repeated Syme. "And why the infernal blazes," roared the other, "should I want to go by the train?" "We know all," said the Professor sternly. "You are going to Paris to throw a bomb!" "Going to Jericho to throw a Jabberwock!" cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily. "Have you all got softening of the brain, that you don't realise what I am? Did you really think I wanted to catch that train? Twenty Paris trains might go by for me. Damn Paris trains!" "Then what did you care about?" began the Professor. "What did I care about? I didn't care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God! it has caught me." "I regret to inform you," said Syme with restraint, "that your remarks convey no impression to my mind. Perhaps if you were to remove the remains of your original forehead and some portion of what was once your chin, your meaning would become clearer. Mental lucidity fulfils itself in many ways. What	stuck his spade into the ground. Yet the Marquis sprang back from the stroke without a stagger, and Syme stood staring at his own sword-point like an idiot. There was no blood on it at all. There was an instant of rigid silence, and then Syme in his turn fell furiously on the other, filled with a flaming curiosity. The Marquis was probably, in a general sense, a better fencer than he, as he had surmised at the beginning, but at the moment the Marquis seemed distraught and at a disadvantage. He fought wildly and even weakly, and he constantly looked away at the railway line, almost as if he feared the train more than the pointed steel. Syme, on the other hand, fought fiercely but still carefully, in an intellectual fury, eager to solve the riddle of his own bloodless sword. For this purpose, he aimed less at the Marquis's body, and more at his throat and head. A minute and a half afterwards he felt his point enter the man's neck below the jaw. It came out clean. Half mad, he thrust again, and made what should have been a bloody scar on the Marquis's cheek. But there was no scar. For one moment the heaven of Syme again grew black with supernatural terrors. Surely the man had a charmed life. But this new spiritual dread was a more awful thing than had been the mere spiritual topsy-turvydom symbolised by the paralytic who pursued him. The Professor was only a goblin; this man was a devil perhaps he was the Devil! Anyhow, this was certain, that three times had a human sword been driven into him and made no mark. When Syme had that thought he drew himself up, and all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees. He thought of all the human things in his story of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl's red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by. Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation. "After all," he said to himself, "I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do I can die," and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train. He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something."<\|quote\|>"What is the matter?"</\|quote\|>asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train." "I protest that this is most irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don't be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!" and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill. Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand. He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still	The Man Who Was Thursday
"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."	Brett Ashley	it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I	idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just	you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?"	good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room.	face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of	do you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much." "Darling," she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business." "Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said. "This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them." "What's his name?" asked Brett. "Veuve Cliquot?" "No," said the count. "Mumms. He's a baron." "Isn't it wonderful," said Brett. "We all have titles. Why haven't you a title, Jake?" "I assure you, sir," the count put his hand on my arm. "It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money." "Oh, I don't know. It's damned useful sometimes," Brett said. "I've never known it to do me any good." "You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own amount of credit on mine." "Do sit down, count," I said. "Let me take that stick." The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gas-light. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. "I say, Jake, I don't want to ruin your rugs. Can't you give a chap an ash-tray?" I found some ash-trays and spread them	in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home, chez Barnes. One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings. I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the _France_. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the door-bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses. "Hello, darling," said Brett. "Aren't you going to let us in?" "Come on. I was just bathing." "Aren't you the fortunate man. Bathing." "Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?" "I don't know whether you like flowers, sir," the count said, "but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses." "Here, give them to me." Brett took them. "Get me some water in this, Jake." I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room table. "I say. We have had a day." "You don't remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?" "No. Did we have one? I must have been blind." "You were quite drunk, my dear," said the count. "Wasn't I, though? And the count's been a brick, absolutely." "You've got hell's own drag with the concierge now." "I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs." "Don't be a damned fool." "His," she said, and nodded at the count. "I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late." "He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's happened." "So do you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much." "Darling," she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business." "Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said. "This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them." "What's his name?" asked Brett. "Veuve Cliquot?" "No," said the count. "Mumms. He's a baron." "Isn't it wonderful," said Brett. "We all have titles. Why haven't you a title, Jake?" "I assure you, sir," the count put his hand on my arm. "It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money." "Oh, I don't know. It's damned useful sometimes," Brett said. "I've never known it to do me any good." "You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own amount of credit on mine." "Do sit down, count," I said. "Let me take that stick." The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gas-light. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. "I say, Jake, I don't want to ruin your rugs. Can't you give a chap an ash-tray?" I found some ash-trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. "Put two bottles in it, Henry," the count called. "Anything else, sir?" "No. Wait down in the car." He turned to Brett and to me. "We'll want to ride out to the Bois for dinner?" "If you like," Brett said. "I couldn't eat a thing." "I always like a good meal," said the count. "Should I bring the wine in, sir?" asked the chauffeur. "Yes. Bring it in, Henry," said the count. He took out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title." "No. What a pity." "No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear.	a damned fool." "His," she said, and nodded at the count. "I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late." "He's wonderful," Brett said. "He remembers everything that's happened." "So do you, my dear." "Fancy," said Brett. "Who'd want to? I say, Jake, _do_ we get a drink?" "You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is." "Rather." While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. "What's the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?" She kissed me coolly on the forehead. "Oh, Brett, I love you so much." "Darling," she said. Then: "Do you want me to send him away?" "No. He's nice." "I'll send him away." "No, don't." "Yes, I'll send him away." "You can't just like that." "Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about me, I tell you." She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. "Poor old darling." She stroked my head. "What did you say to him?" I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her. "Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne." Then later: "Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?" "It's better." "Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." "Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?" "I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it." "I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's the way I'm made." "Couldn't we go off in the country for a while?" "It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love." "I know." "Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I love you." "You know I love you." "Let's not talk. Talking's all bilge. I'm going away from you, and then Michael's coming back." "Why are you going away?" "Better for you. Better for me." "When are you going?" "Soon as I can." "Where?" "San Sebastian." "Can't we go together?" "No. That would be a hell of an idea after we'd just talked it out." "We never agreed."<\|quote\|>"Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling."</\|quote\|>"Oh, sure," I said. "I know you're right. I'm just low, and when I'm low I talk like a fool." I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up. "Don't look like that, darling." "How do you want me to look?" "Oh, don't be a fool. I'm going away to-morrow." "To-morrow?" "Yes. Didn't I say so? I am." "Let's have a drink, then. The count will be back." "Yes. He should be back. You know he's extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him." We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. "Where should I have him put it, sir?" asked the count. "In the kitchen," Brett said. "Put it in there, Henry," the count motioned. "Now go down and get the ice." He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. "I think you'll find that's very good wine," he said. "I know we don't get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business." "Oh, you always have some one in the trade," Brett said. "This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of acres of them." "What's his name?" asked Brett. "Veuve Cliquot?" "No," said the count. "Mumms. He's a baron." "Isn't it wonderful," said Brett. "We all have titles. Why haven't you a title, Jake?" "I assure you, sir," the count put his hand on my arm. "It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money." "Oh, I don't know. It's damned useful sometimes," Brett said. "I've never known it to do me any good." "You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own amount of credit on mine." "Do sit down, count," I said. "Let me take that stick." The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gas-light. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. "I say, Jake, I don't want to ruin your rugs. Can't you give a chap an ash-tray?" I found some ash-trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. "Put two bottles in it, Henry," the count called. "Anything else, sir?" "No. Wait down in the car." He turned to Brett and to me. "We'll want to ride out to the Bois for dinner?" "If you like," Brett said. "I couldn't eat a thing." "I always like a good meal," said the count. "Should I bring the wine in, sir?" asked the chauffeur. "Yes. Bring it in, Henry," said the count. He took out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced,	The Sun Also Rises
"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."	Anne Steele	room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they	were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the	she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it	hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I	can t repeat such kind of things you know) she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman	nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that? He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that Oh, la! one can t repeat such kind of things you know) she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an t she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan t say anything against them to _you;_ and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good gracious!" (giggling as she spoke) "I d lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world. La! I shall say directly, I wonder how	it expedient to find her way back again to the first. "Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what they chuse about Mr. Ferrars s declaring he would not have Lucy, for it is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain." "I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you," said Elinor. "Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know, very well, and by more than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother s Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother s house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that? He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that Oh, la! one can t repeat such kind of things you know) she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an t she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan t say anything against them to _you;_ and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good gracious!" (giggling as she spoke) "I d lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world. La! I shall say directly, I wonder how you could think of such a thing? _I_ write to the Doctor, indeed!" "Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst. You have got your answer ready." Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made another more necessary. "Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton won t ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spotted muslin on! I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn." Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward s marriage with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be; every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance. As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. The	as he had went away from his mother s house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that? He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that Oh, la! one can t repeat such kind of things you know) she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons." "I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"<\|quote\|>"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that."</\|quote\|>(Laughing affectedly.) "No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door." "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?" "Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind. "Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an t she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan t say anything against them to _you;_ and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good gracious!" (giggling as she spoke) "I d lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world. La! I shall say directly,	Sense And Sensibility
“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”	Crimble	know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write	“I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while	which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a	offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the	She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even	enable you perhaps to join us in regarding the vexed question as settled.” His lordship, having faced this speech without a sign, rested on the speaker a somewhat more confessed intelligence, then looked hard at the offered note and hard at the floor--all to avert himself actively afterward and, with his head a good deal elevated, add to his distance, as it were, from every one and everything so indelicately thrust on his attention. This movement had an ambiguous makeshift air, yet his companions, under the impression of it, exchanged a hopeless look. His daughter none the less lifted her voice. “If you won’t take what he has for you from Mr. Crimble, father, will you take it from me?” And then as after some apparent debate he appeared to decide to heed her, “It may be so long again,” she said, “before you’ve a chance to do a thing I ask.” “The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly	level or seize my point. And if you really want to know,” Hugh went on in his gladness, “what for _us_ has most particularly and preciously taken place, it is that in his opinion, for my career--” “Your reputation,” she cried, “blazes out and your fortune’s made?” He did a happy violence to his modesty. “Well, Bardi adores intelligence and takes off his hat to me.” “Then you need take off yours to nobody!” --such was Lady Grace’s proud opinion. “But I should like to take off mine to _him_,” she added; “which I seem to have put on--to get out and away with you--expressly for that.” Hugh, as he looked her over, took it up in bliss. “Ah, we’ll go forth together to him then--thanks to your happy, splendid impulse!--and you’ll back him gorgeously up in the good he thinks of me.” His friend yet had on this a sombre second thought. “The only thing is that our awful American----!” But he warned her with a raised hand. “Not to speak of our awful Briton!” For the door had opened from the lobby, admitting Lord Theign, unattended, who, at sight of his daughter and her companion, pulled up and held them a minute in reprehensive view--all at least till Hugh undauntedly, indeed quite cheerfully, greeted him. “Since you find me again in your path, my lord, it’s because I’ve a small, but precious document to deliver you, if you’ll allow me to do so; which I feel it important myself to place in your hand.” He drew from his breast a pocket-book and extracted thence a small unsealed envelope; retaining the latter a trifle helplessly in his hand while Lord Theign only opposed to this demonstration an unmitigated blankness. He went none the less bravely on. “I mentioned to you the last time we somewhat infelicitously met that I intended to appeal to another and probably more closely qualified artistic authority on the subject of your so-called Moretto; and I in fact saw the picture half an hour ago with Bardi of Milan, who, there in presence of it, did absolute, did ideal justice, as I had hoped, to the claim I’ve been making. I then went with him to his hotel, close at hand, where he dashed me off this brief and rapid, but quite conclusive, Declaration, which, if you’ll be so good as to read it, will enable you perhaps to join us in regarding the vexed question as settled.” His lordship, having faced this speech without a sign, rested on the speaker a somewhat more confessed intelligence, then looked hard at the offered note and hard at the floor--all to avert himself actively afterward and, with his head a good deal elevated, add to his distance, as it were, from every one and everything so indelicately thrust on his attention. This movement had an ambiguous makeshift air, yet his companions, under the impression of it, exchanged a hopeless look. His daughter none the less lifted her voice. “If you won’t take what he has for you from Mr. Crimble, father, will you take it from me?” And then as after some apparent debate he appeared to decide to heed her, “It may be so long again,” she said, “before you’ve a chance to do a thing I ask.” “The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!” There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate “What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah,	me?” And then as after some apparent debate he appeared to decide to heed her, “It may be so long again,” she said, “before you’ve a chance to do a thing I ask.” “The chance will depend on yourself!” he returned with high dry emphasis. But he held out his hand for the note Hugh had given her and with which she approached him; and though face to face they seemed more separated than brought near by this contact without commerce. She turned away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed,<\|quote\|>“does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.”</\|quote\|>“Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open	The Outcry
CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.	No speaker	for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you	at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he	off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was	All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic zones. The theory ran: "All unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30. They are not to blame,	that day the Europeans were putting aside their normal personalities and sinking themselves in their community. Pity, wrath, heroism, filled them, but the power of putting two and two together was annihilated. Terminating the interview, the Collector walked on to the platform. The confusion there was revolting. A chuprassi of Ronny's had been told to bring up some trifles belonging to the ladies, and was appropriating for himself various articles to which he had no right; he was a camp follower of the angry English. Mohammed Latif made no attempt to resist him. Hassan flung off his turban, and wept. All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic zones. The theory ran: "All unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have not a dog's chance we should be like them if we settled here." Born at Karachi, he seemed to contradict his theory, and would sometimes admit as much with a sad, quiet smile. "Another of them found out," he thought, as he set to work to draft his statement to the Magistrate. He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding. He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss Derek had herself driven in the Mudkul car about an hour ago, she and Miss Quested both in a terrible state. They had gone straight to his bungalow where he	McBryde, who had always been friendly to him, was on the whole sensible, and could, anyhow, be trusted to keep cool. "I came down particularly on your account while poor Heaslop got his mother away. I regarded it as the most friendly thing I could do. I meant to tell you that there will be an informal meeting at the club this evening to discuss the situation, but I am doubtful whether you will care to come. Your visits there are always infrequent." "I shall certainly come, sir, and I am most grateful to you for all the trouble you have taken over me. May I venture to ask where Miss Quested is." He replied with a gesture; she was ill. "Worse and worse, appalling," he said feelingly. But the Collector looked at him sternly, because he was keeping his head. He had not gone mad at the phrase "an English girl fresh from England," he had not rallied to the banner of race. He was still after facts, though the herd had decided on emotion. Nothing enrages Anglo-India more than the lantern of reason if it is exhibited for one moment after its extinction is decreed. All over Chandrapore that day the Europeans were putting aside their normal personalities and sinking themselves in their community. Pity, wrath, heroism, filled them, but the power of putting two and two together was annihilated. Terminating the interview, the Collector walked on to the platform. The confusion there was revolting. A chuprassi of Ronny's had been told to bring up some trifles belonging to the ladies, and was appropriating for himself various articles to which he had no right; he was a camp follower of the angry English. Mohammed Latif made no attempt to resist him. Hassan flung off his turban, and wept. All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic zones. The theory ran: "All unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have not a dog's chance we should be like them if we settled here." Born at Karachi, he seemed to contradict his theory, and would sometimes admit as much with a sad, quiet smile. "Another of them found out," he thought, as he set to work to draft his statement to the Magistrate. He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding. He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss Derek had herself driven in the Mudkul car about an hour ago, she and Miss Quested both in a terrible state. They had gone straight to his bungalow where he happened to be, and there and then he had taken down the charge and arranged for the arrest at the railway station. "What is the charge, precisely?" "That he followed her into the cave and made insulting advances. She hit at him with her field-glasses; he pulled at them and the strap broke, and that is how she got away. When we searched him just now, they were in his pocket." "Oh no, oh no, no; it'll be cleared up in five minutes," he cried again. "Have a look at them." The strap had been newly broken, the eye-piece was jammed. The logic of evidence said "Guilty." "Did she say any more?" "There was an echo that appears to have frightened her. Did you go into those caves?" "I saw one of them. There was an echo. Did it get on her nerves?" "I couldn't worry her overmuch with questions. She'll have plenty to go through in the witness-box. They don't bear thinking about, these next weeks. I wish the Marabar Hills and all they contain were at the bottom of the sea. Evening after evening one saw them from the club, and they were just a harmless name. .	what induced you to speak to me in such a tone?" "The news gave me a very great shock, so I must ask you to forgive me. I cannot believe that Dr. Aziz is guilty." He slammed his hand on the table. "That that is a repetition of your insult in an aggravated form." "If I may venture to say so, no," said Fielding, also going white, but sticking to his point. "I make no reflection on the good faith of the two ladies, but the charge they are bringing against Aziz rests upon some mistake, and five minutes will clear it up. The man's manner is perfectly natural; besides, I know him to be incapable of infamy." "It does indeed rest upon a mistake," came the thin, biting voice of the other. "It does indeed. I have had twenty-five years' experience of this country" he paused, and "twenty-five years" seemed to fill the waiting-room with their staleness and ungenerosity "and during those twenty-five years I have never known anything but disaster result when English people and Indians attempt to be intimate socially. Intercourse, yes. Courtesy, by all means. Intimacy never, never. The whole weight of my authority is against it. I have been in charge at Chandrapore for six years, and if everything has gone smoothly, if there has been mutual respect and esteem, it is because both peoples kept to this simple rule. New-comers set our traditions aside, and in an instant what you see happens, the work of years is undone and the good name of my District ruined for a generation. I I can't see the end of this day's work, Mr. Fielding. You, who are imbued with modern ideas no doubt you can. I wish I had never lived to see its beginning, I know that. It is the end of me. That a lady, that a young lady engaged to my most valued subordinate that she an English girl fresh from England that I should have lived" Involved in his own emotions, he broke down. What he had said was both dignified and pathetic, but had it anything to do with Aziz? Nothing at all, if Fielding was right. It is impossible to regard a tragedy from two points of view, and whereas Turton had decided to avenge the girl, he hoped to save the man. He wanted to get away and talk to McBryde, who had always been friendly to him, was on the whole sensible, and could, anyhow, be trusted to keep cool. "I came down particularly on your account while poor Heaslop got his mother away. I regarded it as the most friendly thing I could do. I meant to tell you that there will be an informal meeting at the club this evening to discuss the situation, but I am doubtful whether you will care to come. Your visits there are always infrequent." "I shall certainly come, sir, and I am most grateful to you for all the trouble you have taken over me. May I venture to ask where Miss Quested is." He replied with a gesture; she was ill. "Worse and worse, appalling," he said feelingly. But the Collector looked at him sternly, because he was keeping his head. He had not gone mad at the phrase "an English girl fresh from England," he had not rallied to the banner of race. He was still after facts, though the herd had decided on emotion. Nothing enrages Anglo-India more than the lantern of reason if it is exhibited for one moment after its extinction is decreed. All over Chandrapore that day the Europeans were putting aside their normal personalities and sinking themselves in their community. Pity, wrath, heroism, filled them, but the power of putting two and two together was annihilated. Terminating the interview, the Collector walked on to the platform. The confusion there was revolting. A chuprassi of Ronny's had been told to bring up some trifles belonging to the ladies, and was appropriating for himself various articles to which he had no right; he was a camp follower of the angry English. Mohammed Latif made no attempt to resist him. Hassan flung off his turban, and wept. All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic zones. The theory ran: "All unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have not a dog's chance we should be like them if we settled here." Born at Karachi, he seemed to contradict his theory, and would sometimes admit as much with a sad, quiet smile. "Another of them found out," he thought, as he set to work to draft his statement to the Magistrate. He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding. He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss Derek had herself driven in the Mudkul car about an hour ago, she and Miss Quested both in a terrible state. They had gone straight to his bungalow where he happened to be, and there and then he had taken down the charge and arranged for the arrest at the railway station. "What is the charge, precisely?" "That he followed her into the cave and made insulting advances. She hit at him with her field-glasses; he pulled at them and the strap broke, and that is how she got away. When we searched him just now, they were in his pocket." "Oh no, oh no, no; it'll be cleared up in five minutes," he cried again. "Have a look at them." The strap had been newly broken, the eye-piece was jammed. The logic of evidence said "Guilty." "Did she say any more?" "There was an echo that appears to have frightened her. Did you go into those caves?" "I saw one of them. There was an echo. Did it get on her nerves?" "I couldn't worry her overmuch with questions. She'll have plenty to go through in the witness-box. They don't bear thinking about, these next weeks. I wish the Marabar Hills and all they contain were at the bottom of the sea. Evening after evening one saw them from the club, and they were just a harmless name. . . . Yes, we start already." For a visiting card was brought; Vakil Mahmoud Ali, legal adviser to the prisoner, asked to be allowed to see him. McBryde sighed, gave permission, and continued: "I heard some more from Miss Derek she is an old friend of us both and talks freely; well her account is that you went off to locate the camp, and almost at once she heard stones falling on the Kawa Dol and saw Miss Quested running straight down the face of a precipice. Well. She climbed up a sort of gully to her, and found her practically done for her helmet off" "Was a guide not with her?" interrupted Fielding. "No. She had got among some cactuses. Miss Derek saved her life coming just then she was beginning to fling herself about. She helped her down to the car. Miss Quested couldn't stand the Indian driver, cried," Keep him away' "and it was that that put our friend on the track of what had happened. They made straight for our bungalow, and are there now. That's the story as far as I know it yet. She sent the driver to join you. I think she behaved with great sense." "I suppose there's no possibility of my seeing Miss Quested?" he asked suddenly. "I hardly think that would do. Surely." "I was afraid you'ld say that. I should very much like to." "She is in no state to see anyone. Besides, you don't know her well." "Hardly at all. . . . But you see I believe she's under some hideous delusion, and that that wretched boy is innocent." The policeman started in surprise, and a shadow passed over his face, for he could not bear his dispositions to be upset. "I had no idea that was in your mind," he said, and looked for support at the signed deposition, which lay before him. "Those field-glasses upset me for a minute, but I've thought since: it's impossible that, having attempted to assault her, he would put her glasses into his pocket." "Quite possible, I'm afraid; when an Indian goes bad, he goes not only very bad, but very queer." "I don't follow." "How should you? When you think of crime you think of English crime. The psychology here is different. I dare say you'll tell me next that he was quite normal when he came down from	the phrase "an English girl fresh from England," he had not rallied to the banner of race. He was still after facts, though the herd had decided on emotion. Nothing enrages Anglo-India more than the lantern of reason if it is exhibited for one moment after its extinction is decreed. All over Chandrapore that day the Europeans were putting aside their normal personalities and sinking themselves in their community. Pity, wrath, heroism, filled them, but the power of putting two and two together was annihilated. Terminating the interview, the Collector walked on to the platform. The confusion there was revolting. A chuprassi of Ronny's had been told to bring up some trifles belonging to the ladies, and was appropriating for himself various articles to which he had no right; he was a camp follower of the angry English. Mohammed Latif made no attempt to resist him. Hassan flung off his turban, and wept. All the comforts that had been provided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute him on their little platforms, he said to himself: "I know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you shall squeal."<\|quote\|>CHAPTER XVIII Mr. McBryde, the District Superintendent of Police, was the most reflective and best educated of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy marriage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There was much of the cynic about him, but nothing of the bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring.</\|quote\|>"I have to detain you until you get bail," he said, "but no doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I am given certain information, and have to act on it I'm not your judge." Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic zones. The theory ran: "All unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have not a dog's chance we should be like them if we settled here." Born at Karachi, he seemed to contradict his theory, and would sometimes admit as much with a sad, quiet smile. "Another of them found out," he thought, as he set to work to draft his statement to the Magistrate. He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding. He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss Derek had herself driven in the Mudkul car about an hour ago, she and Miss Quested both in a terrible state. They had gone straight to his bungalow where he happened to be, and there and then he had taken down the charge and arranged for the arrest at the railway station. "What is the charge, precisely?" "That he followed her into the cave and made insulting advances. She hit at him with her field-glasses; he pulled at them and the strap broke, and that is how she got away. When we searched him just now, they were in his pocket." "Oh no, oh no, no; it'll be cleared up in five minutes," he cried again. "Have a look at them." The strap had been newly broken, the eye-piece was jammed. The logic of evidence said "Guilty." "Did she say any more?" "There was an echo that appears to have frightened her. Did you go into those caves?" "I saw one of them. There was an echo. Did it get on her nerves?" "I couldn't worry her overmuch with questions. She'll have plenty to go through in the witness-box. They don't bear thinking about, these next weeks. I wish the Marabar Hills and all they contain were at the bottom of the sea. Evening	A Passage To India
Bill said,	No speaker	bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to."	on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting	a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me.	gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of	It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing out the worst in anybody. After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill. We went inside the station and stood with a crowd of people just back of the gates, and the train came in and stopped, and everybody started coming out through the gates. They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody had gone through and out of the station and gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway. "Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow	and hard, and I crossed over beside some buildings, and walked back along side-streets to the hotel. At dinner that night we found that Robert Cohn had taken a bath, had had a shave and a haircut and a shampoo, and something put on his hair afterward to make it stay down. He was nervous, and I did not try to help him any. The train was due in at nine o'clock from San Sebastian, and, if Brett and Mike were coming, they would be on it. At twenty minutes to nine we were not half through dinner. Robert Cohn got up from the table and said he would go to the station. I said I would go with him, just to devil him. Bill said he would be damned if he would leave his dinner. I said we would be right back. We walked to the station. I was enjoying Cohn's nervousness. I hoped Brett would be on the train. At the station the train was late, and we sat on a baggage-truck and waited outside in the dark. I have never seen a man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn--nor as eager. I was enjoying it. It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing out the worst in anybody. After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill. We went inside the station and stood with a crowd of people just back of the gates, and the train came in and stopped, and everybody started coming out through the gates. They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody had gone through and out of the station and gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway. "Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow night." There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train and the one we had just met. "That sounds like a good idea," Cohn said. "The sooner we get on the stream the better." "It's all one to me when we start," Bill said. "The sooner the better." We sat in the Iru a for a while and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bull-ring and across the field and under the trees at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the river in the dark, and I turned in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the caf quite late, I believe, because I was asleep when they came in. In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Burguete. It was scheduled to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Iru a reading the papers when I saw Robert Cohn coming across the square. He came up to the table and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. "This is a comfortable caf ," he said. "Did you have a good night, Jake?" "I slept like a	off my coat. "You must have been in a motor-car," he said. The back of the collar and the upper part of the shoulders were gray with dust. "From Bayonne." "Well, well," he said. "I knew you were in a motor-car from the way the dust was." So I gave him two copper coins. At the end of the street I saw the cathedral and walked up toward it. The first time I ever saw it I thought the fa ade was ugly but I liked it now. I went inside. It was dim and dark and the pillars went high up, and there were people praying, and it smelt of incense, and there were some wonderful big windows. I knelt and started to pray and prayed for everybody I thought of, Brett and Mike and Bill and Robert Cohn and myself, and all the bull-fighters, separately for the ones I liked, and lumping all the rest, then I prayed for myself again, and while I was praying for myself I found I was getting sleepy, so I prayed that the bull-fights would be good, and that it would be a fine fiesta, and that we would get some fishing. I wondered if there was anything else I might pray for, and I thought I would like to have some money, so I prayed that I would make a lot of money, and then I started to think how I would make it, and thinking of making money reminded me of the count, and I started wondering about where he was, and regretting I hadn't seen him since that night in Montmartre, and about something funny Brett told me about him, and as all the time I was kneeling with my forehead on the wood in front of me, and was thinking of myself as praying, I was a little ashamed, and regretted that I was such a rotten Catholic, but realized there was nothing I could do about it, at least for a while, and maybe never, but that anyway it was a grand religion, and I only wished I felt religious and maybe I would the next time; and then I was out in the hot sun on the steps of the cathedral, and the forefingers and the thumb of my right hand were still damp, and I felt them dry in the sun. The sunlight was hot and hard, and I crossed over beside some buildings, and walked back along side-streets to the hotel. At dinner that night we found that Robert Cohn had taken a bath, had had a shave and a haircut and a shampoo, and something put on his hair afterward to make it stay down. He was nervous, and I did not try to help him any. The train was due in at nine o'clock from San Sebastian, and, if Brett and Mike were coming, they would be on it. At twenty minutes to nine we were not half through dinner. Robert Cohn got up from the table and said he would go to the station. I said I would go with him, just to devil him. Bill said he would be damned if he would leave his dinner. I said we would be right back. We walked to the station. I was enjoying Cohn's nervousness. I hoped Brett would be on the train. At the station the train was late, and we sat on a baggage-truck and waited outside in the dark. I have never seen a man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn--nor as eager. I was enjoying it. It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing out the worst in anybody. After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill. We went inside the station and stood with a crowd of people just back of the gates, and the train came in and stopped, and everybody started coming out through the gates. They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody had gone through and out of the station and gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway. "Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow night." There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train and the one we had just met. "That sounds like a good idea," Cohn said. "The sooner we get on the stream the better." "It's all one to me when we start," Bill said. "The sooner the better." We sat in the Iru a for a while and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bull-ring and across the field and under the trees at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the river in the dark, and I turned in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the caf quite late, I believe, because I was asleep when they came in. In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Burguete. It was scheduled to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Iru a reading the papers when I saw Robert Cohn coming across the square. He came up to the table and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. "This is a comfortable caf ," he said. "Did you have a good night, Jake?" "I slept like a log." "I didn't sleep very well. Bill and I were out late, too." "Where were you?" "Here. And after it shut we went over to that other caf . The old man there speaks German and English." "The Caf Suizo." "That's it. He seems like a nice old fellow. I think it's a better caf than this one." "It's not so good in the daytime," I said. "Too hot. By the way, I got the bus tickets." "I'm not going up to-day. You and Bill go on ahead." "I've got your ticket." "Give it to me. I'll get the money back." "It's five pesetas." Robert Cohn took out a silver five-peseta piece and gave it to me. "I ought to stay," he said. "You see I'm afraid there's some sort of misunderstanding." "Why," I said. "They may not come here for three or four days now if they start on parties at San Sebastian." "That's just it," said Robert. "I'm afraid they expected to meet me at San Sebastian, and that's why they stopped over." "What makes you think that?" "Well, I wrote suggesting it to Brett." "Why in hell didn't you stay there and meet them then?" I started to say, but I stopped. I thought that idea would come to him by itself, but I do not believe it ever did. He was being confidential now and it was giving him pleasure to be able to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him and Brett. "Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch," I said. "I wish I could go. We've been looking forward to this fishing all winter." He was being sentimental about it. "But I ought to stay. I really ought. As soon as they come I'll bring them right up." "Let's find Bill." "I want to go over to the barber-shop." "See you at lunch." I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving. "Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night," Bill said. "He's a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian." "The lying bastard!" "Oh, no," said Bill. "Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow, anyway?" "Don't rub it in." Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror	and Mike were coming, they would be on it. At twenty minutes to nine we were not half through dinner. Robert Cohn got up from the table and said he would go to the station. I said I would go with him, just to devil him. Bill said he would be damned if he would leave his dinner. I said we would be right back. We walked to the station. I was enjoying Cohn's nervousness. I hoped Brett would be on the train. At the station the train was late, and we sat on a baggage-truck and waited outside in the dark. I have never seen a man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn--nor as eager. I was enjoying it. It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing out the worst in anybody. After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill. We went inside the station and stood with a crowd of people just back of the gates, and the train came in and stopped, and everybody started coming out through the gates. They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody had gone through and out of the station and gotten into buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends or relatives through the dark into the town. "I knew they wouldn't come," Robert said. We were going back to the hotel. "I thought they might," I said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could,"<\|quote\|>Bill said,</\|quote\|>"but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway. "Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow night." There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train and the one we had just met. "That sounds like a good idea," Cohn said. "The sooner we get on the stream the better." "It's all one to me when we start," Bill said. "The sooner the better." We sat in the Iru a for a while and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bull-ring and across the field and under the trees at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the river in the dark, and I turned in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the caf quite late, I believe, because I was asleep when they came in. In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Burguete. It was scheduled to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Iru a reading the papers when	The Sun Also Rises
She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.	No speaker	"What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I	don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said.	Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has	something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise." Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me." "Hush, hush!..." he muttered. He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing. Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its	now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There must be a different sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live!... I was fired by curiosity ... you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise." Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me." "Hush, hush!..." he muttered. He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing. Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it. They found a cab and drove to Oreanda. "I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the board--Von Diderits," said Gurov. "Is your husband a German?" "No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox Russian himself." At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was	very grave, as though it were her fall--so it seemed, and it was strange and inappropriate. Her face dropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair hung down mournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like "the woman who was a sinner" in an old-fashioned picture. "It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now." There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and began eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour of silence. Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good, simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning on the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was very unhappy. "How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you are saying." "God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. "It's awful." "You seem to feel you need to be forgiven." "Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't attempt to justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have deceived. And not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There must be a different sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live!... I was fired by curiosity ... you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise." Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me." "Hush, hush!..." he muttered. He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing. Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it. They found a cab and drove to Oreanda. "I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the board--Von Diderits," said Gurov. "Is your husband a German?" "No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox Russian himself." At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings--the sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky--Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence. A man walked up to them--probably a keeper--looked at them and walked away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw a steamer	about before it reached the groyne. Anna Sergeyevna looked through her lorgnette at the steamer and the passengers as though looking for acquaintances, and when she turned to Gurov her eyes were shining. She talked a great deal and asked disconnected questions, forgetting next moment what she had asked; then she dropped her lorgnette in the crush. The festive crowd began to disperse; it was too dark to see people's faces. The wind had completely dropped, but Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna still stood as though waiting to see some one else come from the steamer. Anna Sergeyevna was silent now, and sniffed the flowers without looking at Gurov. "The weather is better this evening," he said. "Where shall we go now? Shall we drive somewhere?" She made no answer. Then he looked at her intently, and all at once put his arm round her and kissed her on the lips, and breathed in the moisture and the fragrance of the flowers; and he immediately looked round him, anxiously wondering whether any one had seen them. "Let us go to your hotel," he said softly. And both walked quickly. The room was close and smelt of the scent she had bought at the Japanese shop. Gurov looked at her and thought: "What different people one meets in the world!" From the past he preserved memories of careless, good-natured women, who loved cheerfully and were grateful to him for the happiness he gave them, however brief it might be; and of women like his wife who loved without any genuine feeling, with superfluous phrases, affectedly, hysterically, with an expression that suggested that it was not love nor passion, but something more significant; and of two or three others, very beautiful, cold women, on whose faces he had caught a glimpse of a rapacious expression--an obstinate desire to snatch from life more than it could give, and these were capricious, unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in their first youth, and when Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, and the lace on their linen seemed to him like scales. But in this case there was still the diffidence, the angularity of inexperienced youth, an awkward feeling; and there was a sense of consternation as though some one had suddenly knocked at the door. The attitude of Anna Sergeyevna-- "the lady with the dog" --to what had happened was somehow peculiar, very grave, as though it were her fall--so it seemed, and it was strange and inappropriate. Her face dropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair hung down mournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like "the woman who was a sinner" in an old-fashioned picture. "It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now." There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and began eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour of silence. Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good, simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning on the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was very unhappy. "How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you are saying." "God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. "It's awful." "You seem to feel you need to be forgiven." "Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't attempt to justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have deceived. And not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There must be a different sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live!... I was fired by curiosity ... you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise." Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me." "Hush, hush!..." he muttered. He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing. Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it. They found a cab and drove to Oreanda. "I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the board--Von Diderits," said Gurov. "Is your husband a German?" "No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox Russian himself." At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings--the sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky--Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence. A man walked up to them--probably a keeper--looked at them and walked away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw a steamer come from Theodosia, with its lights out in the glow of dawn. "There is dew on the grass," said Anna Sergeyevna, after a silence. "Yes. It's time to go home." They went back to the town. Then they met every day at twelve o'clock on the sea-front, lunched and dined together, went for walks, admired the sea. She complained that she slept badly, that her heart throbbed violently; asked the same questions, troubled now by jealousy and now by the fear that he did not respect her sufficiently. And often in the square or gardens, when there was no one near them, he suddenly drew her to him and kissed her passionately. Complete idleness, these kisses in broad daylight while he looked round in dread of some one's seeing them, the heat, the smell of the sea, and the continual passing to and fro before him of idle, well-dressed, well-fed people, made a new man of him; he told Anna Sergeyevna how beautiful she was, how fascinating. He was impatiently passionate, he would not move a step away from her, while she was often pensive and continually urged him to confess that he did not respect her, did not love her in the least, and thought of her as nothing but a common woman. Rather late almost every evening they drove somewhere out of town, to Oreanda or to the waterfall; and the expedition was always a success, the scenery invariably impressed them as grand and beautiful. They were expecting her husband to come, but a letter came from him, saying that there was something wrong with his eyes, and he entreated his wife to come home as quickly as possible. Anna Sergeyevna made haste to go. "It's a good thing I am going away," she said to Gurov. "It's the finger of destiny!" She went by coach and he went with her. They were driving the whole day. When she had got into a compartment of the express, and when the second bell had rung, she said: "Let me look at you once more ... look at you once again. That's right." She did not shed tears, but was so sad that she seemed ill, and her face was quivering. "I shall remember you ... think of you," she said. "God be with you; be happy. Don't remember evil against me. We are parting forever--it must be so, for	she mused in a dejected attitude like "the woman who was a sinner" in an old-fashioned picture. "It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now." There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and began eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour of silence. Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good, simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning on the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was very unhappy. "How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you are saying." "God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. "It's awful." "You seem to feel you need to be forgiven." "Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't attempt to justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have deceived. And not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There must be a different sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live!... I was fired by curiosity ... you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise." Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part. "I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"<\|quote\|>She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.</\|quote\|>"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me." "Hush, hush!..." he muttered. He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing. Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it. They found a cab and drove to Oreanda. "I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the board--Von Diderits," said Gurov. "Is your husband a German?" "No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox Russian himself." At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings--the sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky--Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence. A man walked up to them--probably a keeper--looked at them and walked away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw a steamer come from Theodosia, with its lights out in the glow of dawn. "There is dew on the grass," said Anna Sergeyevna, after a silence. "Yes. It's time to go home." They went back to the town. Then they met every day at twelve o'clock on the sea-front, lunched and dined together, went for walks, admired the sea. She complained that she slept badly, that her heart throbbed violently; asked the same questions, troubled now by jealousy and now by the fear that he did not respect her sufficiently. And often in the square or gardens, when there was no one near them, he suddenly drew her to him and kissed her passionately. Complete idleness, these kisses in broad daylight while he looked round in dread of some one's seeing them, the heat, the smell of the sea, and the continual passing to and fro before him of idle, well-dressed, well-fed people, made a new man of him; he told Anna Sergeyevna how beautiful she	The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (1)
"I've meant to get over,"	Krum	this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how	isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a	taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all	of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little	in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the	down the Boulevard to the rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock. Students went by going up to the law school, or down to the Sorbonne. The Boulevard was busy with trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and rode down to the Madeleine, standing on the back platform. From the Madeleine I walked along the Boulevard des Capucines to the Op ra, and up to my office. I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys. I stepped aside to avoid walking into the thread with which his girl assistant manipulated the boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread in her folded hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley,	go to Cannes with him. Told him I knew too many people in Cannes. Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people in Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So I asked him to bring me here." She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass raised. "Don't look like that," she said. "Told him I was in love with you. True, too. Don't look like that. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-morrow night. Like to go?" "Why not?" "I'd better go now." "Why?" "Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street." "The count?" "Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. Got it all at Zelli's. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt you?" "I have to work in the morning," I said. "I'm too far behind you now to catch up and be any fun." "Don't be an ass." "Can't do it." "Right. Send him a tender message?" "Anything. Absolutely." "Good night, darling." "Don't be sentimental." "You make me ill." We kissed good night and Brett shivered. "I'd better go," she said. "Good night, darling." "You don't have to go." "Yes." We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the concierge muttered something behind her door. I went back up-stairs and from the open window watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine drawn up to the curb under the arc-light. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed, and got into bed. This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing. CHAPTER 5 In the morning I walked down the Boulevard to the rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock. Students went by going up to the law school, or down to the Sorbonne. The Boulevard was busy with trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and rode down to the Madeleine, standing on the back platform. From the Madeleine I walked along the Boulevard des Capucines to the Op ra, and up to my office. I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys. I stepped aside to avoid walking into the thread with which his girl assistant manipulated the boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread in her folded hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said. "She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?" "She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight." "She's very nice." "I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding." "You sound as though you liked her pretty well." "I do. I shouldn't wonder if I were in love with her." "She's a drunk," I said. "She's in love with Mike Campbell, and she's going to marry him. He's going to be rich as hell some day." "I don't believe she'll ever marry him." "Why not?" "I don't know. I just don't believe it. Have you known her a long time?" "Yes," I said. "She was a V. A. D. in a hospital I was in during the war." "She must have been just a kid then." "She's thirty-four now." "When did she marry Ashley?" "During the war. Her own true love had just kicked off with the dysentery." "You talk sort of bitter." "Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to give you the facts." "I don't believe she would marry anybody she didn't love." "Well," I said. "She's done it twice." "I don't believe it." "Well," I said, "don't ask me a lot of fool questions if you don't like the answers." "I didn't ask you that." "You asked me what I knew about Brett Ashley." "I didn't ask you to insult her." "Oh, go to hell." He stood up from the table his face white, and stood there white and angry behind the little plates of hors d'oeuvres. "Sit down," I said. "Don't be a fool." "You've got to take that back." "Oh, cut out the prep-school stuff." "Take it back." "Sure. Anything. I never heard of Brett Ashley. How's that?" "No. Not that. About me going to hell." "Oh, don't go to hell," I said. "Stick around. We're just starting lunch." Cohn smiled again and sat down. He seemed glad to sit down. What the hell would he have done if he hadn't sat down? "You say such damned insulting things, Jake." "I'm sorry. I've got a nasty tongue. I never mean it when I say nasty things." "I know it,"	folded hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select."<\|quote\|>"I've meant to get over,"</\|quote\|>said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink." "Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning." I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand. "You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me." "It's all on the office, anyway." "Nope. I want to get it." I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday." "You bet." I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?" "Yes. Let me see if there is anything new." "Where will we eat?" "Anywhere." I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?" "How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres." In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres. "Have any fun last night?" I asked. "No. I don't think so." "How's the writing going?" "Rotten. I can't get this second book going." "That happens to everybody." "Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though." "Thought any more about going to South America?" "I mean that." "Well, why don't you start off?" "Frances." "Well," I said, "take her with you." "She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around." "Tell her to go to hell." "I can't. I've got certain obligations to her." He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring. "What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?" "Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said. "She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?" "She's a remarkably attractive woman." "Isn't she?" "There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight." "She's very nice." "I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding." "You sound as though	The Sun Also Rises
"Now it is time to make preparations to go."	Tony Last	Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The	the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a	no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could,	was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no	crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is	remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my	them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive	And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<\|quote\|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</\|quote\|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had	A Handful Of Dust
A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:	No speaker	to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there	yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went	I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up	said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we	aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I	business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete.	truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions. “Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.” “I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.” Tom turned to Daisy sharply. “You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?” “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes” —but there was no laughter in his eyes— “to think that you didn’t know.” “Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.” “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head. “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back,	the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.”<\|quote\|>A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting:</\|quote\|>“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to	The Great Gatsby
he said;	No speaker	"The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily;	her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order.	concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient	this was the heiress of the five huge buildings. "I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening." He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a	say it is nerves; when she was a little girl she was scrofulous, and the doctors drove it inwards, so I think it may be due to that." They went to see the invalid. Fully grown up, big and tall, but ugly like her mother, with the same little eyes and disproportionate breadth of the lower part of the face, lying with her hair in disorder, muffled up to the chin, she made upon Korolyov at the first minute the impression of a poor, destitute creature, sheltered and cared for here out of charity, and he could hardly believe that this was the heiress of the five huge buildings. "I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening." He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a soft, suffering expression which was intelligent and touching: she seemed to him altogether graceful, feminine, and simple; and he longed to soothe her, not with drugs, not with advice, but with simple, kindly words. Her mother put her arms round her head and hugged her. What despair, what grief was in the old woman's face! She, her mother, had reared her and brought her up, spared nothing, and devoted her whole life to having her daughter taught French, dancing, music: had engaged a dozen teachers for her; had consulted the best doctors, kept a governess. And now she could not	stood a personage with short hair and a pince-nez; she was wearing a blouse of many colours, and was very thin and no longer young. The servants called her Christina Dmitryevna, and Korolyov guessed that this was the governess. Probably, as the person of most education in the house, she had been charged to meet and receive the doctor, for she began immediately, in great haste, stating the causes of the illness, giving trivial and tiresome details, but without saying who was ill or what was the matter. The doctor and the governess were sitting talking while the lady of the house stood motionless at the door, waiting. From the conversation Korolyov learned that the patient was Madame Lyalikov's only daughter and heiress, a girl of twenty, called Liza; she had been ill for a long time, and had consulted various doctors, and the previous night she had suffered till morning from such violent palpitations of the heart, that no one in the house had slept, and they had been afraid she might die. "She has been, one may say, ailing from a child," said Christina Dmitryevna in a sing-song voice, continually wiping her lips with her hand. "The doctors say it is nerves; when she was a little girl she was scrofulous, and the doctors drove it inwards, so I think it may be due to that." They went to see the invalid. Fully grown up, big and tall, but ugly like her mother, with the same little eyes and disproportionate breadth of the lower part of the face, lying with her hair in disorder, muffled up to the chin, she made upon Korolyov at the first minute the impression of a poor, destitute creature, sheltered and cared for here out of charity, and he could hardly believe that this was the heiress of the five huge buildings. "I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening." He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a soft, suffering expression which was intelligent and touching: she seemed to him altogether graceful, feminine, and simple; and he longed to soothe her, not with drugs, not with advice, but with simple, kindly words. Her mother put her arms round her head and hugged her. What despair, what grief was in the old woman's face! She, her mother, had reared her and brought her up, spared nothing, and devoted her whole life to having her daughter taught French, dancing, music: had engaged a dozen teachers for her; had consulted the best doctors, kept a governess. And now she could not make out the reason of these tears, why there was all this misery, she could not understand, and was bewildered; and she had a guilty, agitated, despairing expression, as though she had omitted something very important, had left something undone, had neglected to call in somebody--and whom, she did not know. "Lizanka, you are crying again ... again," she said, hugging her daughter to her. "My own, my darling, my child, tell me what it is! Have pity on me! Tell me." Both wept bitterly. Korolyov sat down on the side of the bed and took Liza's hand. "Come, give over; it's no use crying," he said kindly. "Why, there is nothing in the world that is worth those tears. Come, we won't cry; that's no good...." And inwardly he thought: "It's high time she was married...." "Our doctor at the factory gave her kalibromati," said the governess, "but I notice it only makes her worse. I should have thought that if she is given anything for the heart it ought to be drops.... I forget the name.... Convallaria, isn't it?" And there followed all sorts of details. She interrupted the doctor, preventing his speaking, and there was a look	birch-trees, and the quiet atmosphere all around, when the fields and woods and the sun seemed preparing, like the workpeople now on the eve of the holiday, to rest, and perhaps to pray.... He was born and had grown up in Moscow; he did not know the country, and he had never taken any interest in factories, or been inside one, but he had happened to read about factories, and had been in the houses of manufacturers and had talked to them; and whenever he saw a factory far or near, he always thought how quiet and peaceable it was outside, but within there was always sure to be impenetrable ignorance and dull egoism on the side of the owners, wearisome, unhealthy toil on the side of the workpeople, squabbling, vermin, vodka. And now when the workpeople timidly and respectfully made way for the carriage, in their faces, their caps, their walk, he read physical impurity, drunkenness, nervous exhaustion, bewilderment. They drove in at the factory gates. On each side he caught glimpses of the little houses of workpeople, of the faces of women, of quilts and linen on the railings. "Look out!" shouted the coachman, not pulling up the horses. It was a wide courtyard without grass, with five immense blocks of buildings with tall chimneys a little distance one from another, warehouses and barracks, and over everything a sort of grey powder as though from dust. Here and there, like oases in the desert, there were pitiful gardens, and the green and red roofs of the houses in which the managers and clerks lived. The coachman suddenly pulled up the horses, and the carriage stopped at the house, which had been newly painted grey; here was a flower garden, with a lilac bush covered with dust, and on the yellow steps at the front door there was a strong smell of paint. "Please come in, doctor," said women's voices in the passage and the entry, and at the same time he heard sighs and whisperings. "Pray walk in.... We've been expecting you so long ... we're in real trouble. Here, this way." Madame Lyalikov--a stout elderly lady wearing a black silk dress with fashionable sleeves, but, judging from her face, a simple uneducated woman--looked at the doctor in a flutter, and could not bring herself to hold out her hand to him; she did not dare. Beside her stood a personage with short hair and a pince-nez; she was wearing a blouse of many colours, and was very thin and no longer young. The servants called her Christina Dmitryevna, and Korolyov guessed that this was the governess. Probably, as the person of most education in the house, she had been charged to meet and receive the doctor, for she began immediately, in great haste, stating the causes of the illness, giving trivial and tiresome details, but without saying who was ill or what was the matter. The doctor and the governess were sitting talking while the lady of the house stood motionless at the door, waiting. From the conversation Korolyov learned that the patient was Madame Lyalikov's only daughter and heiress, a girl of twenty, called Liza; she had been ill for a long time, and had consulted various doctors, and the previous night she had suffered till morning from such violent palpitations of the heart, that no one in the house had slept, and they had been afraid she might die. "She has been, one may say, ailing from a child," said Christina Dmitryevna in a sing-song voice, continually wiping her lips with her hand. "The doctors say it is nerves; when she was a little girl she was scrofulous, and the doctors drove it inwards, so I think it may be due to that." They went to see the invalid. Fully grown up, big and tall, but ugly like her mother, with the same little eyes and disproportionate breadth of the lower part of the face, lying with her hair in disorder, muffled up to the chin, she made upon Korolyov at the first minute the impression of a poor, destitute creature, sheltered and cared for here out of charity, and he could hardly believe that this was the heiress of the five huge buildings. "I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening." He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a soft, suffering expression which was intelligent and touching: she seemed to him altogether graceful, feminine, and simple; and he longed to soothe her, not with drugs, not with advice, but with simple, kindly words. Her mother put her arms round her head and hugged her. What despair, what grief was in the old woman's face! She, her mother, had reared her and brought her up, spared nothing, and devoted her whole life to having her daughter taught French, dancing, music: had engaged a dozen teachers for her; had consulted the best doctors, kept a governess. And now she could not make out the reason of these tears, why there was all this misery, she could not understand, and was bewildered; and she had a guilty, agitated, despairing expression, as though she had omitted something very important, had left something undone, had neglected to call in somebody--and whom, she did not know. "Lizanka, you are crying again ... again," she said, hugging her daughter to her. "My own, my darling, my child, tell me what it is! Have pity on me! Tell me." Both wept bitterly. Korolyov sat down on the side of the bed and took Liza's hand. "Come, give over; it's no use crying," he said kindly. "Why, there is nothing in the world that is worth those tears. Come, we won't cry; that's no good...." And inwardly he thought: "It's high time she was married...." "Our doctor at the factory gave her kalibromati," said the governess, "but I notice it only makes her worse. I should have thought that if she is given anything for the heart it ought to be drops.... I forget the name.... Convallaria, isn't it?" And there followed all sorts of details. She interrupted the doctor, preventing his speaking, and there was a look of effort on her face, as though she supposed that, as the woman of most education in the house, she was duty bound to keep up a conversation with the doctor, and on no other subject but medicine. Korolyov felt bored. "I find nothing special the matter," he said, addressing the mother as he went out of the bedroom. "If your daughter is being attended by the factory doctor, let him go on attending her. The treatment so far has been perfectly correct, and I see no reason for changing your doctor. Why change? It's such an ordinary trouble; there's nothing seriously wrong." He spoke deliberately as he put on his gloves, while Madame Lyalikov stood without moving, and looked at him with her tearful eyes. "I have half an hour to catch the ten o'clock train," he said. "I hope I am not too late." "And can't you stay?" she asked, and tears trickled down her cheeks again. "I am ashamed to trouble you, but if you would be so good.... For God's sake," she went on in an undertone, glancing towards the door, "do stay to-night with us! She is all I have ... my only daughter.... She frightened me last night; I can't get over it.... Don't go away, for goodness' sake!..." He wanted to tell her that he had a great deal of work in Moscow, that his family were expecting him home; it was disagreeable to him to spend the evening and the whole night in a strange house quite needlessly; but he looked at her face, heaved a sigh, and began taking off his gloves without a word. All the lamps and candles were lighted in his honour in the drawing-room and the dining-room. He sat down at the piano and began turning over the music. Then he looked at the pictures on the walls, at the portraits. The pictures, oil-paintings in gold frames, were views of the Crimea--a stormy sea with a ship, a Catholic monk with a wineglass; they were all dull, smooth daubs, with no trace of talent in them. There was not a single good-looking face among the portraits, nothing but broad cheekbones and astonished-looking eyes. Lyalikov, Liza's father, had a low forehead and a self-satisfied expression; his uniform sat like a sack on his bulky plebeian figure; on his breast was a medal and a Red Cross Badge. There	governess were sitting talking while the lady of the house stood motionless at the door, waiting. From the conversation Korolyov learned that the patient was Madame Lyalikov's only daughter and heiress, a girl of twenty, called Liza; she had been ill for a long time, and had consulted various doctors, and the previous night she had suffered till morning from such violent palpitations of the heart, that no one in the house had slept, and they had been afraid she might die. "She has been, one may say, ailing from a child," said Christina Dmitryevna in a sing-song voice, continually wiping her lips with her hand. "The doctors say it is nerves; when she was a little girl she was scrofulous, and the doctors drove it inwards, so I think it may be due to that." They went to see the invalid. Fully grown up, big and tall, but ugly like her mother, with the same little eyes and disproportionate breadth of the lower part of the face, lying with her hair in disorder, muffled up to the chin, she made upon Korolyov at the first minute the impression of a poor, destitute creature, sheltered and cared for here out of charity, and he could hardly believe that this was the heiress of the five huge buildings. "I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening." He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered. "I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something." "I will, I will; don't worry yourself." Korolyov examined her and shrugged his shoulders. "The heart is all right,"<\|quote\|>he said;</\|quote\|>"it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep." At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a soft, suffering expression which was intelligent and touching: she seemed to him altogether graceful, feminine, and simple; and he longed to soothe her, not with drugs, not with advice, but with simple, kindly words. Her mother put her arms round her head and hugged her. What despair, what grief was in the old woman's face! She, her mother, had reared her and brought her up, spared nothing, and devoted her whole life to having her daughter taught French, dancing, music: had engaged a dozen teachers for her; had consulted the best doctors, kept a governess. And now she could not make out the reason of these tears, why there was all this misery, she could not understand, and was bewildered; and she had a guilty, agitated, despairing expression, as though she had omitted something very important, had left something undone, had neglected to call in somebody--and whom, she did not know. "Lizanka, you are crying again ... again," she said, hugging her daughter to her. "My own, my darling, my child, tell me what it is! Have pity on me! Tell me." Both wept bitterly. Korolyov sat down on the side of the bed and took Liza's hand. "Come, give over; it's no use crying," he said kindly. "Why, there is nothing in the world that is worth those tears. Come, we won't cry; that's no good...." And inwardly he thought: "It's high time she was married...." "Our doctor at the factory gave her kalibromati," said the governess, "but I notice it only makes her worse. I should have thought that if she is given anything for the heart it	The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (2)
he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.	No speaker	fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend	His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she	the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to	overlook his weakness and his callow vanity. "Look here," she said to him one day, "I guess you 'll have to be moving. There 's a young lady been inquiring for you to-day, and I won't stand for that." He looked at her, startled for a moment, until he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that	deem the woman less perfect. He knew that she was much older than he, but he only took this fact as an additional sign of his prowess in having won her. He was proud of himself when he went behind the scenes at the theatre or waited for her at the stage door and bore her off under the admiring eyes of a crowd of gapers. And Hattie? She liked him in a half-contemptuous, half-amused way. He was a good-looking boy and made money enough, as she expressed it, to show her a good time, so she was willing to overlook his weakness and his callow vanity. "Look here," she said to him one day, "I guess you 'll have to be moving. There 's a young lady been inquiring for you to-day, and I won't stand for that." He looked at her, startled for a moment, until he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that afternoon, after going to the barber-shop, Joe was driven by a tempest of conflicting emotions. If Minty Brown had not told his story, why not? Would she yet tell, and if she did, what would happen? He tortured himself by questioning if Hattie would cast him off. At the very thought his hand trembled, and the man in the chair asked him if he had n't been drinking. When he met Minty in the evening, however, the first glance at her reassured him. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she came forward and held out her hand. "Well, well,	the detestable coon ditties which the stage demanded. She showed no particular pleasure when her mother found the sort of place they wanted, but went to work with her in sullen silence. Mrs. Hamilton could not understand it all, and many a night she wept and prayed over the change in this child of her heart. There were times when she felt that there was nothing left to work or fight for. The letters from Berry in prison became fewer and fewer. He was sinking into the dull, dead routine of his life. Her own letters to him fell off. It was hard getting the children to write. They did not want to be bothered, and she could not write for herself. So in the weeks and months that followed she drifted farther away from her children and husband and all the traditions of her life. After Joe's first night at the Banner Club he had kept his promise to Hattie Sterling and had gone often to meet her. She had taught him much, because it was to her advantage to do so. His greenness had dropped from him like a garment, but no amount of sophistication could make him deem the woman less perfect. He knew that she was much older than he, but he only took this fact as an additional sign of his prowess in having won her. He was proud of himself when he went behind the scenes at the theatre or waited for her at the stage door and bore her off under the admiring eyes of a crowd of gapers. And Hattie? She liked him in a half-contemptuous, half-amused way. He was a good-looking boy and made money enough, as she expressed it, to show her a good time, so she was willing to overlook his weakness and his callow vanity. "Look here," she said to him one day, "I guess you 'll have to be moving. There 's a young lady been inquiring for you to-day, and I won't stand for that." He looked at her, startled for a moment, until he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that afternoon, after going to the barber-shop, Joe was driven by a tempest of conflicting emotions. If Minty Brown had not told his story, why not? Would she yet tell, and if she did, what would happen? He tortured himself by questioning if Hattie would cast him off. At the very thought his hand trembled, and the man in the chair asked him if he had n't been drinking. When he met Minty in the evening, however, the first glance at her reassured him. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she came forward and held out her hand. "Well, well, Joe Hamilton," she exclaimed, "if I ain't right-down glad to see you! How are you?" "I 'm middlin', Minty. How 's yourself?" He was so happy that he could n't let go her hand. "An' jes' look at the boy! Ef he ain't got the impidence to be waihin' a mustache too. You must 'a' been lettin' the cats lick yo' upper lip. Did n't expect to see me in New York, did you?" "No, indeed. What you doin' here?" "Oh, I got a gent'man friend what 's a porter, an' his run 's been changed so that he comes hyeah, an' he told me, if I wanted to come he 'd bring me thoo fur a visit, so, you see, hyeah I am. I allus was mighty anxious to see this hyeah town. But tell me, how 's Kit an' yo' ma?" "They 're both right well." He had forgotten them and their scorn of Minty. "Whaih do you live? I 'm comin' roun' to see 'em." He hesitated for a moment. He knew how his mother, if not Kit, would receive her, and yet he dared not anger this woman, who had his fate in the hollow of	often to the club. X A VISITOR FROM HOME Mrs. Hamilton began to question very seriously whether she had done the best thing in coming to New York as she saw her son staying away more and more and growing always farther away from her and his sister. Had she known how and where he spent his evenings, she would have had even greater cause to question the wisdom of their trip. She knew that although he worked he never had any money for the house, and she foresaw the time when the little they had would no longer suffice for Kitty and her. Realising this, she herself set out to find something to do. It was a hard matter, for wherever she went seeking employment, it was always for her and her daughter, for the more she saw of Mrs. Jones, the less she thought it well to leave the girl under her influence. Mrs. Hamilton was not a keen woman, but she had a mother's intuitions, and she saw a subtle change in her daughter. At first the girl grew wistful and then impatient and rebellious. She complained that Joe was away from them so much enjoying himself, while she had to be housed up like a prisoner. She had receded from her dignified position, and twice of an evening had gone out for a car-ride with Thomas; but as that gentleman never included the mother in his invitation, she decided that her daughter should go no more, and she begged Joe to take his sister out sometimes instead. He demurred at first, for he now numbered among his city acquirements a fine contempt for his woman relatives. Finally, however, he consented, and took Kit once to the theatre and once for a ride. Each time he left her in the care of Thomas as soon as they were out of the house, while he went to find or to wait for his dear Hattie. But his mother did not know all this, and Kit did not tell her. The quick poison of the unreal life about her had already begun to affect her character. She had grown secretive and sly. The innocent longing which in a burst of enthusiasm she had expressed that first night at the theatre was growing into a real ambition with her, and she dropped the simple old songs she knew to practise the detestable coon ditties which the stage demanded. She showed no particular pleasure when her mother found the sort of place they wanted, but went to work with her in sullen silence. Mrs. Hamilton could not understand it all, and many a night she wept and prayed over the change in this child of her heart. There were times when she felt that there was nothing left to work or fight for. The letters from Berry in prison became fewer and fewer. He was sinking into the dull, dead routine of his life. Her own letters to him fell off. It was hard getting the children to write. They did not want to be bothered, and she could not write for herself. So in the weeks and months that followed she drifted farther away from her children and husband and all the traditions of her life. After Joe's first night at the Banner Club he had kept his promise to Hattie Sterling and had gone often to meet her. She had taught him much, because it was to her advantage to do so. His greenness had dropped from him like a garment, but no amount of sophistication could make him deem the woman less perfect. He knew that she was much older than he, but he only took this fact as an additional sign of his prowess in having won her. He was proud of himself when he went behind the scenes at the theatre or waited for her at the stage door and bore her off under the admiring eyes of a crowd of gapers. And Hattie? She liked him in a half-contemptuous, half-amused way. He was a good-looking boy and made money enough, as she expressed it, to show her a good time, so she was willing to overlook his weakness and his callow vanity. "Look here," she said to him one day, "I guess you 'll have to be moving. There 's a young lady been inquiring for you to-day, and I won't stand for that." He looked at her, startled for a moment, until he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that afternoon, after going to the barber-shop, Joe was driven by a tempest of conflicting emotions. If Minty Brown had not told his story, why not? Would she yet tell, and if she did, what would happen? He tortured himself by questioning if Hattie would cast him off. At the very thought his hand trembled, and the man in the chair asked him if he had n't been drinking. When he met Minty in the evening, however, the first glance at her reassured him. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she came forward and held out her hand. "Well, well, Joe Hamilton," she exclaimed, "if I ain't right-down glad to see you! How are you?" "I 'm middlin', Minty. How 's yourself?" He was so happy that he could n't let go her hand. "An' jes' look at the boy! Ef he ain't got the impidence to be waihin' a mustache too. You must 'a' been lettin' the cats lick yo' upper lip. Did n't expect to see me in New York, did you?" "No, indeed. What you doin' here?" "Oh, I got a gent'man friend what 's a porter, an' his run 's been changed so that he comes hyeah, an' he told me, if I wanted to come he 'd bring me thoo fur a visit, so, you see, hyeah I am. I allus was mighty anxious to see this hyeah town. But tell me, how 's Kit an' yo' ma?" "They 're both right well." He had forgotten them and their scorn of Minty. "Whaih do you live? I 'm comin' roun' to see 'em." He hesitated for a moment. He knew how his mother, if not Kit, would receive her, and yet he dared not anger this woman, who had his fate in the hollow of her hand. She saw his hesitation and spoke up. "Oh, that 's all right. Let by-gones be by-gones. You know I ain't the kin' o' person that holds a grudge ag'in anybody." "That 's right, Minty, that 's right," he said, and gave her his mother's address. Then he hastened home to prepare the way for Minty's coming. Joe had no doubt but that his mother would see the matter quite as he saw it, and be willing to temporise with Minty; but he had reckoned without his host. Mrs. Hamilton might make certain concessions to strangers on the score of expediency, but she absolutely refused to yield one iota of her dignity to one whom she had known so long as an inferior. "But don't you see what she can do for us, ma? She knows people that I know, and she can ruin me with them." "I ain't never bowed my haid to Minty Brown an' I ain't a-goin' to do it now," was his mother's only reply. "Oh, ma," Kitty put in, "you don't want to get talked about up here, do you?" "We 'd jes' as well be talked about fu' somep'n we did n't do as fu' somep'n we did do, an' it would n' be long befo' we 'd come to dat if we made frien's wid dat Brown gal. I ain't a-goin' to do it. I 'm ashamed o' you, Kitty, fu' wantin' me to." The girl began to cry, while her brother walked the floor angrily. "You 'll see what 'll happen," he cried; "you 'll see." Fannie looked at her son, and she seemed to see him more clearly than she had ever seen him before,--his foppery, his meanness, his cowardice. "Well," she answered with a sigh, "it can't be no wuss den what 's already happened." "You 'll see, you 'll see," the boy reiterated. Minty Brown allowed no wind of thought to cool the fire of her determination. She left Hattie Sterling's soon after Joe, and he was still walking the floor and uttering dire forebodings when she rang the bell below and asked for the Hamiltons. Mrs. Jones ushered her into her fearfully upholstered parlour, and then puffed up stairs to tell her lodgers that there was a friend there from the South who wanted to see them. "Tell huh," said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one	they were out of the house, while he went to find or to wait for his dear Hattie. But his mother did not know all this, and Kit did not tell her. The quick poison of the unreal life about her had already begun to affect her character. She had grown secretive and sly. The innocent longing which in a burst of enthusiasm she had expressed that first night at the theatre was growing into a real ambition with her, and she dropped the simple old songs she knew to practise the detestable coon ditties which the stage demanded. She showed no particular pleasure when her mother found the sort of place they wanted, but went to work with her in sullen silence. Mrs. Hamilton could not understand it all, and many a night she wept and prayed over the change in this child of her heart. There were times when she felt that there was nothing left to work or fight for. The letters from Berry in prison became fewer and fewer. He was sinking into the dull, dead routine of his life. Her own letters to him fell off. It was hard getting the children to write. They did not want to be bothered, and she could not write for herself. So in the weeks and months that followed she drifted farther away from her children and husband and all the traditions of her life. After Joe's first night at the Banner Club he had kept his promise to Hattie Sterling and had gone often to meet her. She had taught him much, because it was to her advantage to do so. His greenness had dropped from him like a garment, but no amount of sophistication could make him deem the woman less perfect. He knew that she was much older than he, but he only took this fact as an additional sign of his prowess in having won her. He was proud of himself when he went behind the scenes at the theatre or waited for her at the stage door and bore her off under the admiring eyes of a crowd of gapers. And Hattie? She liked him in a half-contemptuous, half-amused way. He was a good-looking boy and made money enough, as she expressed it, to show her a good time, so she was willing to overlook his weakness and his callow vanity. "Look here," she said to him one day, "I guess you 'll have to be moving. There 's a young lady been inquiring for you to-day, and I won't stand for that." He looked at her, startled for a moment, until he saw the laughter in her eyes. Then he caught her and kissed her. "What 're you givin' me?" he said. "It 's a straight tip, that 's what." "Who is it?" "It 's a girl named Minty Brown from your home." His face turned brick-red with fear and shame. "Minty Brown!"<\|quote\|>he stammered. Had that girl told all and undone him? But Hattie was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing.</\|quote\|>"Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that afternoon, after going to the barber-shop, Joe was driven by a tempest of conflicting emotions. If Minty Brown had not told his story, why not? Would she yet tell, and if she did, what would happen? He tortured himself by questioning if Hattie would cast him off. At the very thought his hand trembled, and the man in the chair asked him if he had n't been drinking. When he met Minty in the evening, however, the first glance at her reassured him. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she came forward and held out her hand. "Well, well, Joe Hamilton," she exclaimed, "if I ain't right-down glad to see you! How are you?" "I 'm middlin', Minty. How 's yourself?" He was so happy that he could n't let go her hand. "An' jes' look at the boy! Ef he ain't got the impidence to be waihin' a mustache too. You must 'a' been lettin' the cats lick yo' upper lip. Did n't expect to see me in New York, did you?" "No, indeed. What you doin' here?" "Oh, I got a gent'man friend what 's a porter, an' his run 's been changed so that he comes hyeah, an' he told me, if I wanted to come he 'd bring me thoo fur a visit, so, you see, hyeah I am. I allus was mighty anxious to see this hyeah town. But tell me, how 's Kit an' yo' ma?" "They 're both right well." He had forgotten them and their scorn of Minty. "Whaih do you live? I 'm comin' roun' to see 'em." He hesitated for a moment. He knew how his mother, if not Kit, would receive her, and yet he dared not anger this woman, who had his fate in the hollow of her hand. She saw his hesitation and spoke up. "Oh, that 's all right. Let by-gones be by-gones. You know I ain't the kin' o' person that holds a grudge ag'in anybody." "That 's right, Minty, that 's right," he said, and gave her his mother's address. Then he hastened home to prepare the way for Minty's coming. Joe had no doubt but that his mother would see the matter quite as he saw it, and be willing to temporise with Minty; but he had reckoned without his host. Mrs. Hamilton might make certain concessions to strangers on the score of expediency, but she absolutely refused to yield one iota	The Sport Of The Gods
"I can tell you,"	Dervish	but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was	the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone,	had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat	had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce." "Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I	a certain sign he had undergone the same fate as his brother; but at the same time told her he hoped it would never happen, but that he should have the delight of seeing her again. Prince Perviz, on the twentieth day after his departure, met the same dervish in the same place as his brother Bahman had done before him. He went directly up to him, and after he had saluted, asked him if he could tell him where to find the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water. The dervish urged the same remonstrances as he had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce." "Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I beg of you to do me the same favour you have done my brother. Perhaps I may have better success in following your directions." "Since I cannot prevail with you," said the dervish, "to give up your obstinate resolution, if my age did not prevent me, and I could stand, I would get up to reach you a bowl I have here, which will show you the way." Without giving the dervish time to say more, the prince alighted from his horse and went to the dervish, who had taken a bowl out of his bag, in which he had	submit and adore the decrees of the Almighty without searching into them. Why should you now doubt of the truth of what the holy woman told you? Do you think she spoke to you of three things that were not in being, and that she invented them to deceive you who had received her with so much goodness and civility? Let us rather believe that our brother's death is owing to some error on his part, or some accident which we cannot conceive. It ought not therefore to prevent us from pursuing our object. I offered to go this journey, and am now more resolved than ever; his example has no effect upon my resolution; to-morrow I will depart." The princess did all she could to dissuade Prince Perviz, conjuring him not to expose her to the danger of losing two brothers; but he was obstinate, and all the remonstrances she could urge had no effect upon him. Before he went, that she might know what success he had, he left her a string of a hundred pearls, telling her that if they would not run when she should count them upon the string, but remain fixed, that would be a certain sign he had undergone the same fate as his brother; but at the same time told her he hoped it would never happen, but that he should have the delight of seeing her again. Prince Perviz, on the twentieth day after his departure, met the same dervish in the same place as his brother Bahman had done before him. He went directly up to him, and after he had saluted, asked him if he could tell him where to find the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water. The dervish urged the same remonstrances as he had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce." "Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I beg of you to do me the same favour you have done my brother. Perhaps I may have better success in following your directions." "Since I cannot prevail with you," said the dervish, "to give up your obstinate resolution, if my age did not prevent me, and I could stand, I would get up to reach you a bowl I have here, which will show you the way." Without giving the dervish time to say more, the prince alighted from his horse and went to the dervish, who had taken a bowl out of his bag, in which he had a great many, and gave it him, with the same directions he had given Prince Bahman; and after warning him not to be discouraged by the voices he should hear, however threatening they might be, but to continue his way up the hill till he saw the cage and bird, he let him depart. Prince Perviz thanked the dervish, and when he had remounted and taken leave, threw the bowl before his horse, and spurring him at the same time, followed it. When the bowl came to the bottom of the hill it stopped, the prince alighted, and stood some time to recollect the dervish's directions. He encouraged himself, and began to walk up with a resolution to reach the summit; but before he had gone above six steps, he heard a voice, which seemed to be near, as of a man behind him, say in an insulting tone: "Stay, rash youth, that I may punish you for your presumption." Upon this affront the prince, forgetting the dervish's advice, clapped his hand upon his sword, drew it, and turned about to revenge himself; but had scarcely time to see that nobody followed him before he and his horse were changed	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 and before, that at last he was seized with dread, his legs trembled under him, he staggered, and finding that his strength failed him, he forgot the dervish's advice, turned about to run down the hill, and was that instant changed into a black stone; a metamorphosis which had happened to many before him who had attempted the ascent. His horse, likewise, underwent the same change. From the time of Prince Bahman's departure, the Princess Periezade always wore the knife and sheath in her girdle, and pulled it out several times in a day, to know whether her brother was alive. She had the consolation to understand he was in perfect health and to talk of him frequently with Prince Perviz. On the fatal day that Prince Bahman was transformed into a stone, as Prince Perviz and the princess were talking together in the evening, as usual, the prince desired his sister to pull out the knife to know how their brother did. The princess readily complied, and seeing the blood run down the point was seized with so much horror that she threw it down. "Ah! my dear brother," cried she, "I have been the cause of your death, and shall never see you more! Why did I tell you of the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water; or rather, of what importance was it to me to know whether the devout woman thought this house ugly or handsome, or complete or not? I wish to Heaven she had never addressed herself to me!" Prince Perviz was as much afflicted at the death of Prince Bahman as the princess, but not to waste time in needless regret, as he knew that she still passionately desired possession of the marvellous treasures, he interrupted her, saying: "Sister, our regret for our brother is vain; our lamentations cannot restore him to life; it is the will of God; we must submit and adore the decrees of the Almighty without searching into them. Why should you now doubt of the truth of what the holy woman told you? Do you think she spoke to you of three things that were not in being, and that she invented them to deceive you who had received her with so much goodness and civility? Let us rather believe that our brother's death is owing to some error on his part, or some accident which we cannot conceive. It ought not therefore to prevent us from pursuing our object. I offered to go this journey, and am now more resolved than ever; his example has no effect upon my resolution; to-morrow I will depart." The princess did all she could to dissuade Prince Perviz, conjuring him not to expose her to the danger of losing two brothers; but he was obstinate, and all the remonstrances she could urge had no effect upon him. Before he went, that she might know what success he had, he left her a string of a hundred pearls, telling her that if they would not run when she should count them upon the string, but remain fixed, that would be a certain sign he had undergone the same fate as his brother; but at the same time told her he hoped it would never happen, but that he should have the delight of seeing her again. Prince Perviz, on the twentieth day after his departure, met the same dervish in the same place as his brother Bahman had done before him. He went directly up to him, and after he had saluted, asked him if he could tell him where to find the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water. The dervish urged the same remonstrances as he had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce." "Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I beg of you to do me the same favour you have done my brother. Perhaps I may have better success in following your directions." "Since I cannot prevail with you," said the dervish, "to give up your obstinate resolution, if my age did not prevent me, and I could stand, I would get up to reach you a bowl I have here, which will show you the way." Without giving the dervish time to say more, the prince alighted from his horse and went to the dervish, who had taken a bowl out of his bag, in which he had a great many, and gave it him, with the same directions he had given Prince Bahman; and after warning him not to be discouraged by the voices he should hear, however threatening they might be, but to continue his way up the hill till he saw the cage and bird, he let him depart. Prince Perviz thanked the dervish, and when he had remounted and taken leave, threw the bowl before his horse, and spurring him at the same time, followed it. When the bowl came to the bottom of the hill it stopped, the prince alighted, and stood some time to recollect the dervish's directions. He encouraged himself, and began to walk up with a resolution to reach the summit; but before he had gone above six steps, he heard a voice, which seemed to be near, as of a man behind him, say in an insulting tone: "Stay, rash youth, that I may punish you for your presumption." Upon this affront the prince, forgetting the dervish's advice, clapped his hand upon his sword, drew it, and turned about to revenge himself; but had scarcely time to see that nobody followed him before he and his horse were changed into black stones. In the meantime the Princess Periezade, several times a day after her brother's departure, counted her chaplet. She did not omit it at night, but when she went to bed put it about her neck, and in the morning when she awoke counted over the pearls again to see if they would slide. The day that Prince Perviz was transformed into a stone she was counting over the pearls as she used to do, when all at once they became immovably fixed, a certain token that the prince, her brother, was dead. As she had determined what to do in case it should so happen, she lost no time in outward demonstrations of grief, which she concealed as much as possible, but having disguised herself in man's apparel, she mounted her horse the next morning, armed and equipped, having told her servants she should return in two or three days, and took the same road that her brothers had done. The princess, who had been used to ride on horseback in hunting, supported the fatigue of so long a journey better than most ladies could have done; and as she made the same stages as her brothers, she also met with the dervish on the twentieth day. When she came near him, she alighted from her horse, leading him by the bridle, went and sat down by the dervish, and after she had saluted him, said: "Good dervish, give me leave to rest myself; and do me the favour to tell me if you have not heard that there are somewhere in this neighbourhood a Talking Bird, a Singing Tree, and Golden Water." "Princess," answered the dervish, "for so I must call you, since by your voice I know you to be a woman disguised in man's apparel, I know the place well where these things are to be found; but what makes you ask me this question?" "Good dervish," replied the princess, "I have had such a flattering relation of them given me, that I have a great desire to possess them." "Madam," replied the dervish, "you have been told the truth. These curiosities are more singular than they have been represented, but you have not been made acquainted with the difficulties which must be surmounted in order to obtain them. If you had been fully informed of these, you would not have undertaken so dangerous	you of the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water; or rather, of what importance was it to me to know whether the devout woman thought this house ugly or handsome, or complete or not? I wish to Heaven she had never addressed herself to me!" Prince Perviz was as much afflicted at the death of Prince Bahman as the princess, but not to waste time in needless regret, as he knew that she still passionately desired possession of the marvellous treasures, he interrupted her, saying: "Sister, our regret for our brother is vain; our lamentations cannot restore him to life; it is the will of God; we must submit and adore the decrees of the Almighty without searching into them. Why should you now doubt of the truth of what the holy woman told you? Do you think she spoke to you of three things that were not in being, and that she invented them to deceive you who had received her with so much goodness and civility? Let us rather believe that our brother's death is owing to some error on his part, or some accident which we cannot conceive. It ought not therefore to prevent us from pursuing our object. I offered to go this journey, and am now more resolved than ever; his example has no effect upon my resolution; to-morrow I will depart." The princess did all she could to dissuade Prince Perviz, conjuring him not to expose her to the danger of losing two brothers; but he was obstinate, and all the remonstrances she could urge had no effect upon him. Before he went, that she might know what success he had, he left her a string of a hundred pearls, telling her that if they would not run when she should count them upon the string, but remain fixed, that would be a certain sign he had undergone the same fate as his brother; but at the same time told her he hoped it would never happen, but that he should have the delight of seeing her again. Prince Perviz, on the twentieth day after his departure, met the same dervish in the same place as his brother Bahman had done before him. He went directly up to him, and after he had saluted, asked him if he could tell him where to find the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water. The dervish urged the same remonstrances as he had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers. "Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause."<\|quote\|>"I can tell you,"</\|quote\|>replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce." "Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I beg of you to do me the same favour you have done my brother. Perhaps I may have better success in following your directions." "Since I cannot prevail with you," said the dervish, "to give up your obstinate resolution, if my age did not prevent me, and I could stand, I would get up to reach you a bowl I have here, which will show you the way." Without giving the dervish time to say more, the prince alighted from his horse and went to the dervish, who had taken a bowl out of his bag, in which he had a great many, and gave it him, with the same directions he had given Prince Bahman; and after warning him not to be discouraged by the voices he should hear, however threatening they might be, but to continue his way up the hill till he saw the cage and bird, he let him depart. Prince Perviz thanked the dervish, and when he had remounted and taken leave, threw the bowl before his horse, and spurring him at the same time, followed it. When the bowl came to the bottom of the hill it stopped, the prince alighted, and stood some time to recollect the dervish's directions. He encouraged himself, and began to walk up with a resolution to reach the summit; but before he had gone above six steps, he heard a voice, which seemed to be near, as of a man behind him, say in an insulting tone: "Stay, rash youth, that I may punish you for your presumption." Upon this affront the prince, forgetting the dervish's advice, clapped his hand upon his sword, drew it, and turned about to revenge himself; but had scarcely time to see that nobody followed him before he and his horse were changed into black stones. In the meantime the Princess Periezade, several times a day after her brother's departure, counted her chaplet. She did not omit it at night, but when she went to bed put it about her neck, and in the morning when she awoke counted over the pearls again to see if they would slide. The day that Prince Perviz was transformed into a stone she was counting over the pearls as she used to do, when all at once they became immovably fixed, a certain token that the prince, her brother, was dead. As she had determined what to do in case it should so happen, she lost no time in outward demonstrations of grief, which she concealed as much as possible, but having disguised herself in man's apparel, she mounted her horse the next morning, armed and equipped, having told her servants she should return in two or three days, and took the same road that her brothers had done. The princess, who had been used to ride on horseback in hunting, supported the fatigue of so long a journey better than most ladies could have done; and as she made	Arabian Nights (1)
"She's awful."	Tony Last	wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances...	bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible	for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't	the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to	joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you	I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got	they do _that_. It's one of the _worst_ things. Were they natives?" "Yes, of course." "Ben says natives aren't humans at all really." "Ah, but he's thinking of Negroes, I expect. These are pure Semitic type." "What's that?" "The same as Jews." "Ben says Jews are worse than natives." "Oh dear, what a very severe boy you are. I was like that once. Life teaches one to be tolerant." "It hasn't taught Ben," said John. "When's mummy coming? I thought she'd be here, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a dull world if we all thought alike," she said. "She's more beautiful than Miss Tendril, even. I think she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen... D'you think she'd like to watch me have my bath?" Downstairs, Jenny said, "What a heavenly child... I love children. That has been my great tragedy. It was when he found I couldn't have children that the Moulay first showed the Other Side of his Nature. It wasn't my fault... you see my womb is out of place... I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a _waste of time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought to spend some time with daddy and mummy and Lady Cockpurse?" "Oh, _them_... besides, it's all my foot about Lady Cockpurse having a tail. Please, you _will_ spend the day with me?" "Well, we'll see." * * * * * "She's gone to church with him. That's a good sign, isn't it?" "Well, not really, Polly. He likes going alone, or with me. It's the time he gossips to the village." "She won't stop him." "I'm afraid you don't understand the old boy altogether. He's much odder than you'd think." * * * * * "I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector." "Yes, yes, most of my life." "It has an uncanny fascination, hasn't it?" "Oh, come on," said John, pulling at her coat. "We must go and see Thunderclap." So Tony returned alone with the buttonholes. After luncheon Brenda said, "Why don't you show Jenny the house?" "Oh yes, _do_." When they reached the morning-room he said, "Brenda's having it done up." There were planks and ladders and heaps of plaster about. "Oh, Teddy, what a shame. I do hate seeing things modernized." "It isn't a room we used very much." "No, but still..." She stirred the mouldings of fleur-de-lis that littered the floor, fragments of tarnished gilding and dusty stencil-work. "You know, Brenda's been a wonderful friend to me. I wouldn't say anything against her... but ever since I came here I've been wondering whether she really understands this beautiful place and all it means to you." "Tell me more about your terrible life," said Tony, leading her back to the central hall. "You _are_ shy of talking about yourself, aren't you, Teddy? It's a mistake, you know, to keep things bottled up. I've been very unhappy too." Tony looked about him desperately in search of help; and help came. "Oh, there you are," said a firm, child's voice. "Come on. We're going down to the woods now. We must hurry, otherwise it will be dark." "Oh, Johnny-boy, must I really? I was just talking	time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more."<\|quote\|>"She's awful."</\|quote\|>"One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling." "Good night." * * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought to spend some time with daddy and mummy and Lady Cockpurse?" "Oh, _them_... besides, it's all my foot about Lady Cockpurse having a tail. Please, you _will_ spend the day with me?" "Well, we'll see." * * * * * "She's gone to church with him. That's a good sign, isn't it?" "Well, not really, Polly.	A Handful Of Dust
Polina forced herself to say.	No speaker	Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with	me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on	and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why,	where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your medicinal springs and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why, she is only a human being like the rest of us; and as she has been travelling for a week she might like to look about her. With whom else could she go out but myself? She would never dare to show her nose in the street alone." "But, mother"	herself, since a mere description of it would be a difficult matter. "Then take me straight there," she said, "and do you walk on in front of me, Alexis Ivanovitch." "What, mother? Before you have so much as rested from your journey?" the General inquired with some solicitude. Also, for some reason which I could not divine, he seemed to be growing nervous; and, indeed, the whole party was evincing signs of confusion, and exchanging glances with one another. Probably they were thinking that it would be a ticklish even an embarrassing business to accompany the Grandmother to the Casino, where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your medicinal springs and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why, she is only a human being like the rest of us; and as she has been travelling for a week she might like to look about her. With whom else could she go out but myself? She would never dare to show her nose in the street alone." "But, mother" "Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Stop at home, then, and you will be asked no questions. A pretty General _you_ are, to be sure! I am a general s widow myself. But, after all, why should I drag the whole party with me? I will go and see the sights with only Alexis Ivanovitch as my escort." De Griers strongly insisted that _every one_ ought to accompany her. Indeed, he launched out into a perfect shower of charming phrases concerning the pleasure of acting as her cicerone, and so forth. Every one was touched with his words.	who does not even know how to carry his breeding. Lift me up. Potapitch, see to it that you always have _two_ bearers ready. Go and arrange for their hire. But we shall not require more than two, for I shall need only to be carried upstairs. On the level or in the street I can be _wheeled_ along. Go and tell them that, and pay them in advance, so that they may show me some respect. You too, Potapitch, are always to come with me, and _you_, Alexis Ivanovitch, are to point out to me this Baron as we go along, in order that I may get a squint at the precious Von. And where is that roulette played?" I explained to her that the game was carried on in the salons of the Casino; whereupon there ensued a string of questions as to whether there were many such salons, whether many people played in them, whether those people played a whole day at a time, and whether the game was managed according to fixed rules. At length, I thought it best to say that the most advisable course would be for her to go and see it for herself, since a mere description of it would be a difficult matter. "Then take me straight there," she said, "and do you walk on in front of me, Alexis Ivanovitch." "What, mother? Before you have so much as rested from your journey?" the General inquired with some solicitude. Also, for some reason which I could not divine, he seemed to be growing nervous; and, indeed, the whole party was evincing signs of confusion, and exchanging glances with one another. Probably they were thinking that it would be a ticklish even an embarrassing business to accompany the Grandmother to the Casino, where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your medicinal springs and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why, she is only a human being like the rest of us; and as she has been travelling for a week she might like to look about her. With whom else could she go out but myself? She would never dare to show her nose in the street alone." "But, mother" "Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Stop at home, then, and you will be asked no questions. A pretty General _you_ are, to be sure! I am a general s widow myself. But, after all, why should I drag the whole party with me? I will go and see the sights with only Alexis Ivanovitch as my escort." De Griers strongly insisted that _every one_ ought to accompany her. Indeed, he launched out into a perfect shower of charming phrases concerning the pleasure of acting as her cicerone, and so forth. Every one was touched with his words. "Mais elle est tomb e en enfance," he added aside to the General. "Seule, elle fera des b tises." More than this I could not overhear, but he seemed to have got some plan in his mind, or even to be feeling a slight return of his hopes. The distance to the Casino was about half a verst, and our route led us through the Chestnut Avenue until we reached the square directly fronting the building. The General, I could see, was a trifle reassured by the fact that, though our progress was distinctly eccentric in its nature, it was, at least, correct and orderly. As a matter of fact, the spectacle of a person who is unable to walk is not anything to excite surprise at a spa. Yet it was clear that the General had a great fear of the Casino itself: for why should a person who had lost the use of her limbs more especially an old woman be going to rooms which were set apart only for roulette? On either side of the wheeled chair walked Polina and Mlle. Blanche the latter smiling, modestly jesting, and, in short, making herself so agreeable to the Grandmother	my own pillows and sheets. The place is too luxurious for an old woman like myself. It is too large for any one person. Alexis Ivanovitch, come and see me whenever you are not teaching your pupils." "After tomorrow I shall no longer be in the General s service," I replied, "but merely living in the hotel on my own account." "Why so?" "Because, the other day, there arrived from Berlin a German and his wife persons of some importance; and, it chanced that, when taking a walk, I spoke to them in German without having properly compassed the Berlin accent." "Indeed?" "Yes: and this action on my part the Baron held to be an insult, and complained about it to the General, who yesterday dismissed me from his employ." "But I suppose you must have threatened that precious Baron, or something of the kind? However, even if you did so, it was a matter of no moment." "No, I did not. The Baron was the aggressor by raising his stick at me." Upon that the Grandmother turned sharply to the General. "What? You permitted yourself to treat your tutor thus, you nincompoop, and to dismiss him from his post? You are a blockhead an utter blockhead! I can see that clearly." "Do not alarm yourself, my dear mother," the General replied with a lofty air an air in which there was also a tinge of familiarity. "I am quite capable of managing my own affairs. Moreover, Alexis Ivanovitch has not given you a true account of the matter." "What did you do next?" The old lady inquired of me. "I wanted to challenge the Baron to a duel," I replied as modestly as possible; "but the General protested against my doing so." "And _why_ did you so protest?" she inquired of the General. Then she turned to the landlord, and questioned him as to whether _he_ would not have fought a duel, if challenged. "For," she added, "I can see no difference between you and the Baron; nor can I bear that German visage of yours." Upon this the landlord bowed and departed, though he could not have understood the Grandmother s compliment. "Pardon me, Madame," the General continued with a sneer, "but are duels really feasible?" "Why not? All men are crowing cocks, and that is why they quarrel. _You_, though, I perceive, are a blockhead a man who does not even know how to carry his breeding. Lift me up. Potapitch, see to it that you always have _two_ bearers ready. Go and arrange for their hire. But we shall not require more than two, for I shall need only to be carried upstairs. On the level or in the street I can be _wheeled_ along. Go and tell them that, and pay them in advance, so that they may show me some respect. You too, Potapitch, are always to come with me, and _you_, Alexis Ivanovitch, are to point out to me this Baron as we go along, in order that I may get a squint at the precious Von. And where is that roulette played?" I explained to her that the game was carried on in the salons of the Casino; whereupon there ensued a string of questions as to whether there were many such salons, whether many people played in them, whether those people played a whole day at a time, and whether the game was managed according to fixed rules. At length, I thought it best to say that the most advisable course would be for her to go and see it for herself, since a mere description of it would be a difficult matter. "Then take me straight there," she said, "and do you walk on in front of me, Alexis Ivanovitch." "What, mother? Before you have so much as rested from your journey?" the General inquired with some solicitude. Also, for some reason which I could not divine, he seemed to be growing nervous; and, indeed, the whole party was evincing signs of confusion, and exchanging glances with one another. Probably they were thinking that it would be a ticklish even an embarrassing business to accompany the Grandmother to the Casino, where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your medicinal springs and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why, she is only a human being like the rest of us; and as she has been travelling for a week she might like to look about her. With whom else could she go out but myself? She would never dare to show her nose in the street alone." "But, mother" "Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Stop at home, then, and you will be asked no questions. A pretty General _you_ are, to be sure! I am a general s widow myself. But, after all, why should I drag the whole party with me? I will go and see the sights with only Alexis Ivanovitch as my escort." De Griers strongly insisted that _every one_ ought to accompany her. Indeed, he launched out into a perfect shower of charming phrases concerning the pleasure of acting as her cicerone, and so forth. Every one was touched with his words. "Mais elle est tomb e en enfance," he added aside to the General. "Seule, elle fera des b tises." More than this I could not overhear, but he seemed to have got some plan in his mind, or even to be feeling a slight return of his hopes. The distance to the Casino was about half a verst, and our route led us through the Chestnut Avenue until we reached the square directly fronting the building. The General, I could see, was a trifle reassured by the fact that, though our progress was distinctly eccentric in its nature, it was, at least, correct and orderly. As a matter of fact, the spectacle of a person who is unable to walk is not anything to excite surprise at a spa. Yet it was clear that the General had a great fear of the Casino itself: for why should a person who had lost the use of her limbs more especially an old woman be going to rooms which were set apart only for roulette? On either side of the wheeled chair walked Polina and Mlle. Blanche the latter smiling, modestly jesting, and, in short, making herself so agreeable to the Grandmother that in the end the old lady relented towards her. On the other side of the chair Polina had to answer an endless flow of petty questions such as "Who was it passed just now?" "Who is that coming along?" "Is the town a large one?" "Are the public gardens extensive?" "What sort of trees are those?" "What is the name of those hills?" "Do I see eagles flying yonder?" "What is that absurd-looking building?" and so forth. Meanwhile Astley whispered to me, as he walked by my side, that he looked for much to happen that morning. Behind the old lady s chair marched Potapitch and Martha Potapitch in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, with a cloak over all, and the forty-year-old and rosy, but slightly grey-headed, Martha in a mobcap, cotton dress, and squeaking shoes. Frequently the old lady would twist herself round to converse with these servants. As for De Griers, he spoke as though he had made up his mind to do something (though it is also possible that he spoke in this manner merely in order to hearten the General, with whom he appeared to have held a conference). But, alas, the Grandmother had uttered the fatal words, "I am not going to give you any of my money;" and though De Griers might regard these words lightly, the General knew his mother better. Also, I noticed that De Griers and Mlle. Blanche were still exchanging looks; while of the Prince and the German savant I lost sight at the end of the Avenue, where they had turned back and left us. Into the Casino we marched in triumph. At once, both in the person of the commissionaire and in the persons of the footmen, there sprang to life the same reverence as had arisen in the lacqueys of the hotel. Yet it was not without some curiosity that they eyed us. Without loss of time, the Grandmother gave orders that she should be wheeled through every room in the establishment; of which apartments she praised a few, while to others she remained indifferent. Concerning everything, however, she asked questions. Finally we reached the gaming-salons, where a lacquey who was, acting as guard over the doors, flung them open as though he were a man possessed. The Grandmother s entry into the roulette-salon produced a profound impression upon the public. Around the tables, and at	squint at the precious Von. And where is that roulette played?" I explained to her that the game was carried on in the salons of the Casino; whereupon there ensued a string of questions as to whether there were many such salons, whether many people played in them, whether those people played a whole day at a time, and whether the game was managed according to fixed rules. At length, I thought it best to say that the most advisable course would be for her to go and see it for herself, since a mere description of it would be a difficult matter. "Then take me straight there," she said, "and do you walk on in front of me, Alexis Ivanovitch." "What, mother? Before you have so much as rested from your journey?" the General inquired with some solicitude. Also, for some reason which I could not divine, he seemed to be growing nervous; and, indeed, the whole party was evincing signs of confusion, and exchanging glances with one another. Probably they were thinking that it would be a ticklish even an embarrassing business to accompany the Grandmother to the Casino, where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your medicinal springs and waters are like, and where they are situated. What, too, about that, that what did you call it, Prascovia? oh, about that mountain top?" "Yes, we are going to see it, Grandmamma." "Very well. Is there anything else for me to see here?" "Yes! Quite a number of things,"<\|quote\|>Polina forced herself to say.</\|quote\|>"Martha, _you_ must come with me as well," went on the old lady to her maid. "No, no, mother!" ejaculated the General. "Really she cannot come. They would not admit even Potapitch to the Casino." "Rubbish! Because she is my servant, is that a reason for turning her out? Why, she is only a human being like the rest of us; and as she has been travelling for a week she might like to look about her. With whom else could she go out but myself? She would never dare to show her nose in the street alone." "But, mother" "Are you ashamed to be seen with me? Stop at home, then, and you will be asked no questions. A pretty General _you_ are, to be sure! I am a general s widow myself. But, after all, why should I drag the whole party with me? I will go and see the sights with only Alexis Ivanovitch as my escort." De Griers strongly insisted that _every one_ ought to accompany her. Indeed, he launched out into a perfect shower of charming phrases concerning the pleasure of acting as her cicerone, and so forth. Every one was touched with his words. "Mais elle est tomb e en enfance," he added aside to the General. "Seule, elle fera des b tises." More than this I could not overhear, but he seemed to have got some plan in his mind, or even to be feeling a slight return of his hopes. The distance to the Casino was about half a verst, and our route led us through the Chestnut Avenue until we reached the square directly fronting the building. The General, I could see, was a trifle reassured by the fact that, though our progress was distinctly eccentric in its nature, it was, at least, correct and orderly. As a matter of fact, the spectacle of a person who is unable to walk is not anything to excite surprise at a spa. Yet it was clear that the General had a great fear of the Casino itself: for why should a person who	The Gambler
"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"	Mr. James Harthouse	now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently,	It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece,	is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same	or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again.	at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will	being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	never make any pretensions to the character of a moral sort of fellow. I am as immoral as need be. At the same time, in bringing any distress upon the lady who is the subject of the present conversation, or in unfortunately compromising her in any way, or in committing myself by any expression of sentiments towards her, not perfectly reconcilable with in fact with the domestic hearth; or in taking any advantage of her father's being a machine, or of her brother's being a whelp, or of her husband's being a bear; I beg to be allowed to assure you that I have had no particularly evil intentions, but have glided on from one step to another with a smoothness so perfectly diabolical, that I had not the slightest idea the catalogue was half so long until I began to turn it over. Whereas I find," said Mr. James Harthouse, in conclusion, "that it is really in several volumes." Though he said all this in his frivolous way, the way seemed, for that once, a conscious polishing of but an ugly surface. He was silent for a moment; and then proceeded with a more self-possessed air, though with traces of vexation and disappointment that would not be polished out. "After what has been just now represented to me, in a manner I find it impossible to doubt I know of hardly any other source from which I could have accepted it so readily I feel bound to say to you, in whom the confidence you have mentioned has been reposed, that I cannot refuse to contemplate the possibility (however unexpected) of my seeing the lady no more. I am solely to blame for the thing having come to this and and, I cannot say," he added, rather hard up for a general peroration, "that I have any sanguine expectation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever." Sissy's face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was not finished. "You spoke," he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him again, "of your first object. I may assume that there is a second to be mentioned?" "Yes." "Will you oblige me by confiding it?" "Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	source from which I could have accepted it so readily I feel bound to say to you, in whom the confidence you have mentioned has been reposed, that I cannot refuse to contemplate the possibility (however unexpected) of my seeing the lady no more. I am solely to blame for the thing having come to this and and, I cannot say," he added, rather hard up for a general peroration, "that I have any sanguine expectation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever." Sissy's face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was not finished. "You spoke," he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him again, "of your first object. I may assume that there is a second to be mentioned?" "Yes." "Will you oblige me by confiding it?" "Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. "Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." "I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.<\|quote\|>"If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,"</\|quote\|>he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the 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	Hard Times