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“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”	Mrs. Harling	like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always	Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under	gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted	The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in	feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but Mrs. Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively. “You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why she had n’t been a little more cordial to her. “I did n’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking	much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. “No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky. Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?” Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but Mrs. Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively. “You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why she had n’t been a little more cordial to her. “I did n’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking troubled. “She was kind of talked about, out there.” “Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it against her if she behaves well here. You need n’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim has heard all that gossip?” When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We were good friends, Frances and I. I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm. Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw Creek, and she used to herd her father’s cattle in the open country between his place and the Shimerdas’. Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among her cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered clothing, always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I thought of her as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, because I had never seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a ruddy thatch on her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in spite of constant exposure to the	plump, fair-skinned girl was standing in the doorway. She looked demure and pretty, and made a graceful picture in her blue cashmere dress and little blue hat, with a plaid shawl drawn neatly about her shoulders and a clumsy pocketbook in her hand. “Hello, Tony. Don’t you know me?” she asked in a smooth, low voice, looking in at us archly. Ántonia gasped and stepped back. “Why, it’s Lena! Of course I did n’t know you, so dressed up!” Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for a moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head—or with shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was, brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with perfect composure. “Hello, Jim,” she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and looked about her. “I’ve come to town to work, too, Tony.” “Have you, now? Well, ain’t that funny!” Ántonia stood ill at ease, and did n’t seem to know just what to do with her visitor. The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting and Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them. “You are Lena Lingard, are n’t you? I’ve been to see your mother, but you were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest girl.” Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven. “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena. “Where are you working?” “For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.” “Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How is your mother?” “Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. “No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky. Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?” Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but Mrs. Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively. “You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why she had n’t been a little more cordial to her. “I did n’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking troubled. “She was kind of talked about, out there.” “Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it against her if she behaves well here. You need n’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim has heard all that gossip?” When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We were good friends, Frances and I. I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm. Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw Creek, and she used to herd her father’s cattle in the open country between his place and the Shimerdas’. Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among her cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered clothing, always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I thought of her as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, because I had never seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a ruddy thatch on her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in spite of constant exposure to the sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which somehow made her seem more undressed than other girls who went scantily clad. The first time I stopped to talk to her, I was astonished at her soft voice and easy, gentle ways. The girls out there usually got rough and mannish after they went to herding. But Lena asked Jake and me to get off our horses and stay awhile, and behaved exactly as if she were in a house and were accustomed to having visitors. She was not embarrassed by her ragged clothes, and treated us as if we were old acquaintances. Even then I noticed the unusual color of her eyes—a shade of deep violet—and their soft, confiding expression. Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and he had a large family. Lena was always knitting stockings for little brothers and sisters, and even the Norwegian women, who disapproved of her, admitted that she was a good daughter to her mother. As Tony said, she had been talked about. She was accused of making Ole Benson lose the little sense he had—and that at an age when she should still have been in pinafores. [Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings] Ole lived in a leaky dugout somewhere at the edge of the settlement. He was fat and lazy and discouraged, and bad luck had become a habit with him. After he had had every other kind of misfortune, his wife, “Crazy Mary,” tried to set a neighbor’s barn on fire, and was sent to the asylum at Lincoln. She was kept there for a few months, then escaped and walked all the way home, nearly two hundred miles, traveling by night and hiding in barns and haystacks by day. When she got back to the Norwegian settlement, her poor feet were as hard as hoofs. She promised to be good, and was allowed to stay at home—though every one realized she was as crazy as ever, and she still ran about barefooted through the snow, telling her domestic troubles to her neighbors. Not long after Mary came back from the asylum, I heard a young Dane, who was helping us to thrash, tell Jake and Otto that Chris Lingard’s oldest girl had put Ole Benson out of his head, until he had no more sense than his crazy wife. When Ole was cultivating his corn that summer, he used to get	chair Frances pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven. “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena. “Where are you working?” “For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.” “Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How is your mother?” “Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. “No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky. Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?” Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but Mrs. Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively. “You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why she had n’t been a little more cordial to her. “I did n’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking troubled. “She was kind of talked about, out there.” “Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it against her if she behaves well here. You need n’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim has heard all that gossip?” When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We were good friends, Frances and I. I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm. Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw Creek, and she used to herd her father’s cattle in the open country between his place and the Shimerdas’. Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among her cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered clothing, always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I thought of her as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, because I had never seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a ruddy thatch on her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in spite of constant exposure to the sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which somehow made her seem more undressed than other girls who went scantily clad. The first time I stopped to talk to her, I was astonished at her soft voice and easy, gentle ways. The girls out there usually got rough and mannish after they went to herding. But Lena asked Jake and me to get off our horses and stay awhile, and behaved exactly as if she were in a house and were accustomed to having visitors. She was not embarrassed by her ragged clothes, and treated us as if we were old acquaintances. Even then I noticed the unusual color of her eyes—a shade of deep violet—and their soft, confiding expression. Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and he had a	My Antonia
So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as	No speaker	we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father.	was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride	frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to	the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears	fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must use," said the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian	Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers," returned the girl. "And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon them, and have people walking over them with heavy boots?" "It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn't crush and wither, if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of what was very pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy" "Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn't fancy," cried the gentleman, quite elated by coming so happily to his point. "That's it! You are never to fancy." "You are not, Cecilia Jupe," Thomas Gradgrind solemnly repeated, "to do anything of that kind." "Fact, fact, fact!" said the gentleman. And "Fact, fact, fact!" repeated Thomas Gradgrind. "You are to be in all things regulated and governed," said the gentleman, "by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must use," said the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to "elucidate the diverting accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs." He was also to exhibit "his astounding feat of throwing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was to "enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in "the highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford." Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a	or not. Don't tell _us_ you wouldn't paper it. What do you mean, boy?" "I'll explain to you, then," said the gentleman, after another and a dismal pause, "why you wouldn't paper a room with representations of horses. Do you ever see horses walking up and down the sides of rooms in reality in fact? Do you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers," returned the girl. "And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon them, and have people walking over them with heavy boots?" "It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn't crush and wither, if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of what was very pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy" "Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn't fancy," cried the gentleman, quite elated by coming so happily to his point. "That's it! You are never to fancy." "You are not, Cecilia Jupe," Thomas Gradgrind solemnly repeated, "to do anything of that kind." "Fact, fact, fact!" said the gentleman. And "Fact, fact, fact!" repeated Thomas Gradgrind. "You are to be in all things regulated and governed," said the gentleman, "by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must use," said the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to "elucidate the diverting accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs." He was also to exhibit "his astounding feat of throwing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was to "enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in "the highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford." Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the place. This brought him to a stop. "Now, to think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school." A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said: "Louisa!! Thomas!!" Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked at her father with more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine. "In the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!" said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away by a hand; "what do you do here?" "Wanted to see what it was like," returned Louisa, shortly. "What it was like?" "Yes, father." There was an air of jaded sullenness in them both, and particularly in the girl: yet, struggling through the dissatisfaction of her face, there was a light with nothing to rest upon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starved imagination keeping life in itself somehow, which brightened its expression. Not with the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but with uncertain, eager, doubtful flashes, which had something painful in them, analogous to the changes on a blind face groping its way. She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen; but at no distant day would seem to become a woman all at once. Her father thought so as he looked at her. She was pretty. Would have been self-willed (he thought in his eminently practical way) but for her bringing-up. "Thomas, though I have the fact before me, I find it difficult to believe that you, with your education and resources, should have brought your sister to a scene like this." "I brought _him_, father," said Louisa, quickly. "I asked him	have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers," returned the girl. "And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon them, and have people walking over them with heavy boots?" "It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn't crush and wither, if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of what was very pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy" "Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn't fancy," cried the gentleman, quite elated by coming so happily to his point. "That's it! You are never to fancy." "You are not, Cecilia Jupe," Thomas Gradgrind solemnly repeated, "to do anything of that kind." "Fact, fact, fact!" said the gentleman. And "Fact, fact, fact!" repeated Thomas Gradgrind. "You are to be in all things regulated and governed," said the gentleman, "by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must use," said the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to "elucidate the diverting accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs." He was also to exhibit "his astounding feat of throwing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was to "enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in "the highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford." Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the place. This brought him to a stop. "Now, to think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school." A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he	Hard Times
Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.	No speaker	envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves	at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall	felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated.	do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, and she had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at the queer glow of exaltation in Cassandra s eyes, through which she was beholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she would go on talking about William	find herself already committed by William and Cassandra to marry the owner of the halting voice she had just heard on the telephone. The tendency of her spirit seemed to be in an altogether different direction; and of a different nature. She had only to look at Cassandra to see what the love that results in an engagement and marriage means. She considered for a moment, and then said: "If you don t want to tell people yourselves, I ll do it for you. I know William has feelings about these matters that make it very difficult for him to do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, and she had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at the queer glow of exaltation in Cassandra s eyes, through which she was beholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she would go on talking about William for ever. Cassandra was not unwilling to gratify her. She talked on. The morning slipped away. Katharine scarcely changed her position on the edge of her father s writing-table, and Cassandra never opened the "History of England." And yet it must be confessed that there were vast lapses in the attention which Katharine bestowed upon her cousin. The atmosphere was wonderfully congenial for thoughts of her own. She lost herself sometimes in such deep reverie that Cassandra, pausing, could look at her for moments unperceived. What could Katharine be thinking about, unless it were Ralph Denham? She was satisfied, by	wait as William says." "But, then, if I don t marry him for months or, perhaps, not at all?" Cassandra was silent. The prospect appalled her. Katharine had been telephoning to Ralph Denham; she looked queer, too; she must be, or about to become, engaged to him. But if Cassandra could have overheard the conversation upon the telephone, she would not have felt so certain that it tended in that direction. It was to this effect: "I m Ralph Denham speaking. I m in my right senses now." "How long did you wait outside the house?" "I went home and wrote you a letter. I tore it up." "I shall tear up everything too." "I shall come." "Yes. Come to-day." "I must explain to you" "Yes. We must explain" A long pause followed. Ralph began a sentence, which he canceled with the word, "Nothing." Suddenly, together, at the same moment, they said good-bye. And yet, if the telephone had been miraculously connected with some higher atmosphere pungent with the scent of thyme and the savor of salt, Katharine could hardly have breathed in a keener sense of exhilaration. She ran downstairs on the crest of it. She was amazed to find herself already committed by William and Cassandra to marry the owner of the halting voice she had just heard on the telephone. The tendency of her spirit seemed to be in an altogether different direction; and of a different nature. She had only to look at Cassandra to see what the love that results in an engagement and marriage means. She considered for a moment, and then said: "If you don t want to tell people yourselves, I ll do it for you. I know William has feelings about these matters that make it very difficult for him to do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, and she had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at the queer glow of exaltation in Cassandra s eyes, through which she was beholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she would go on talking about William for ever. Cassandra was not unwilling to gratify her. She talked on. The morning slipped away. Katharine scarcely changed her position on the edge of her father s writing-table, and Cassandra never opened the "History of England." And yet it must be confessed that there were vast lapses in the attention which Katharine bestowed upon her cousin. The atmosphere was wonderfully congenial for thoughts of her own. She lost herself sometimes in such deep reverie that Cassandra, pausing, could look at her for moments unperceived. What could Katharine be thinking about, unless it were Ralph Denham? She was satisfied, by certain random replies, that Katharine had wandered a little from the subject of William s perfections. But Katharine made no sign. She always ended these pauses by saying something so natural that Cassandra was deluded into giving fresh examples of her absorbing theme. Then they lunched, and the only sign that Katharine gave of abstraction was to forget to help the pudding. She looked so like her mother, as she sat there oblivious of the tapioca, that Cassandra was startled into exclaiming: "How like Aunt Maggie you look!" "Nonsense," said Katharine, with more irritation than the remark seemed to call for. In truth, now that her mother was away, Katharine did feel less sensible than usual, but as she argued it to herself, there was much less need for sense. Secretly, she was a little shaken by the evidence which the morning had supplied of her immense capacity for what could one call it? rambling over an infinite variety of thoughts that were too foolish to be named. She was, for example, walking down a road in Northumberland in the August sunset; at the inn she left her companion, who was Ralph Denham, and was transported, not so much by	unseeing, unscrupulous, but the only sign she gave outwardly was a curious one she reached out her hand and grasped the volume of history. At that moment the bell of the telephone rang and Katharine went to answer it. Cassandra, released from observation, dropped her book and clenched her hands. She suffered more fiery torture in those few minutes than she had suffered in the whole of her life; she learnt more of her capacities for feeling. But when Katharine reappeared she was calm, and had gained a look of dignity that was new to her. "Was that him?" she asked. "It was Ralph Denham," Katharine replied. "I meant Ralph Denham." "Why did you mean Ralph Denham? What has William told you about Ralph Denham?" The accusation that Katharine was calm, callous, and indifferent was not possible in face of her present air of animation. She gave Cassandra no time to frame an answer. "Now, when are you and William going to be married?" she asked. Cassandra made no reply for some moments. It was, indeed, a very difficult question to answer. In conversation the night before, William had indicated to Cassandra that, in his belief, Katharine was becoming engaged to Ralph Denham in the dining-room. Cassandra, in the rosy light of her own circumstances, had been disposed to think that the matter must be settled already. But a letter which she had received that morning from William, while ardent in its expression of affection, had conveyed to her obliquely that he would prefer the announcement of their engagement to coincide with that of Katharine s. This document Cassandra now produced, and read aloud, with considerable excisions and much hesitation. "... a thousand pities ahem I fear we shall cause a great deal of natural annoyance. If, on the other hand, what I have reason to think will happen, should happen within reasonable time, and the present position is not in any way offensive to you, delay would, in my opinion, serve all our interests better than a premature explanation, which is bound to cause more surprise than is desirable " "Very like William," Katharine exclaimed, having gathered the drift of these remarks with a speed that, by itself, disconcerted Cassandra. "I quite understand his feelings," Cassandra replied. "I quite agree with them. I think it would be much better, if you intend to marry Mr. Denham, that we should wait as William says." "But, then, if I don t marry him for months or, perhaps, not at all?" Cassandra was silent. The prospect appalled her. Katharine had been telephoning to Ralph Denham; she looked queer, too; she must be, or about to become, engaged to him. But if Cassandra could have overheard the conversation upon the telephone, she would not have felt so certain that it tended in that direction. It was to this effect: "I m Ralph Denham speaking. I m in my right senses now." "How long did you wait outside the house?" "I went home and wrote you a letter. I tore it up." "I shall tear up everything too." "I shall come." "Yes. Come to-day." "I must explain to you" "Yes. We must explain" A long pause followed. Ralph began a sentence, which he canceled with the word, "Nothing." Suddenly, together, at the same moment, they said good-bye. And yet, if the telephone had been miraculously connected with some higher atmosphere pungent with the scent of thyme and the savor of salt, Katharine could hardly have breathed in a keener sense of exhilaration. She ran downstairs on the crest of it. She was amazed to find herself already committed by William and Cassandra to marry the owner of the halting voice she had just heard on the telephone. The tendency of her spirit seemed to be in an altogether different direction; and of a different nature. She had only to look at Cassandra to see what the love that results in an engagement and marriage means. She considered for a moment, and then said: "If you don t want to tell people yourselves, I ll do it for you. I know William has feelings about these matters that make it very difficult for him to do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, and she had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at the queer glow of exaltation in Cassandra s eyes, through which she was beholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she would go on talking about William for ever. Cassandra was not unwilling to gratify her. She talked on. The morning slipped away. Katharine scarcely changed her position on the edge of her father s writing-table, and Cassandra never opened the "History of England." And yet it must be confessed that there were vast lapses in the attention which Katharine bestowed upon her cousin. The atmosphere was wonderfully congenial for thoughts of her own. She lost herself sometimes in such deep reverie that Cassandra, pausing, could look at her for moments unperceived. What could Katharine be thinking about, unless it were Ralph Denham? She was satisfied, by certain random replies, that Katharine had wandered a little from the subject of William s perfections. But Katharine made no sign. She always ended these pauses by saying something so natural that Cassandra was deluded into giving fresh examples of her absorbing theme. Then they lunched, and the only sign that Katharine gave of abstraction was to forget to help the pudding. She looked so like her mother, as she sat there oblivious of the tapioca, that Cassandra was startled into exclaiming: "How like Aunt Maggie you look!" "Nonsense," said Katharine, with more irritation than the remark seemed to call for. In truth, now that her mother was away, Katharine did feel less sensible than usual, but as she argued it to herself, there was much less need for sense. Secretly, she was a little shaken by the evidence which the morning had supplied of her immense capacity for what could one call it? rambling over an infinite variety of thoughts that were too foolish to be named. She was, for example, walking down a road in Northumberland in the August sunset; at the inn she left her companion, who was Ralph Denham, and was transported, not so much by her own feet as by some invisible means, to the top of a high hill. Here the scents, the sounds among the dry heather-roots, the grass-blades pressed upon the palm of her hand, were all so perceptible that she could experience each one separately. After this her mind made excursions into the dark of the air, or settled upon the surface of the sea, which could be discovered over there, or with equal unreason it returned to its couch of bracken beneath the stars of midnight, and visited the snow valleys of the moon. These fancies would have been in no way strange, since the walls of every mind are decorated with some such tracery, but she found herself suddenly pursuing such thoughts with an extreme ardor, which became a desire to change her actual condition for something matching the conditions of her dream. Then she started; then she awoke to the fact that Cassandra was looking at her in amazement. Cassandra would have liked to feel certain that, when Katharine made no reply at all or one wide of the mark, she was making up her mind to get married at once, but it was difficult, if this were so, to account for some remarks that Katharine let fall about the future. She recurred several times to the summer, as if she meant to spend that season in solitary wandering. She seemed to have a plan in her mind which required Bradshaws and the names of inns. Cassandra was driven finally, by her own unrest, to put on her clothes and wander out along the streets of Chelsea, on the pretence that she must buy something. But, in her ignorance of the way, she became panic-stricken at the thought of being late, and no sooner had she found the shop she wanted, than she fled back again in order to be at home when William came. He came, indeed, five minutes after she had sat down by the tea-table, and she had the happiness of receiving him alone. His greeting put her doubts of his affection at rest, but the first question he asked was: "Has Katharine spoken to you?" "Yes. But she says she s not engaged. She doesn t seem to think she s ever going to be engaged." William frowned, and looked annoyed. "They telephoned this morning, and she behaves very oddly. She forgets to help	it up." "I shall tear up everything too." "I shall come." "Yes. Come to-day." "I must explain to you" "Yes. We must explain" A long pause followed. Ralph began a sentence, which he canceled with the word, "Nothing." Suddenly, together, at the same moment, they said good-bye. And yet, if the telephone had been miraculously connected with some higher atmosphere pungent with the scent of thyme and the savor of salt, Katharine could hardly have breathed in a keener sense of exhilaration. She ran downstairs on the crest of it. She was amazed to find herself already committed by William and Cassandra to marry the owner of the halting voice she had just heard on the telephone. The tendency of her spirit seemed to be in an altogether different direction; and of a different nature. She had only to look at Cassandra to see what the love that results in an engagement and marriage means. She considered for a moment, and then said: "If you don t want to tell people yourselves, I ll do it for you. I know William has feelings about these matters that make it very difficult for him to do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, and she had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at the queer glow of exaltation in Cassandra s eyes, through which she was beholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she would go on talking about William for ever. Cassandra was not unwilling to gratify her. She talked on. The morning slipped away. Katharine scarcely changed her position on the edge of her father s writing-table, and Cassandra never opened the "History of England." And yet it must be confessed that there were vast lapses in the attention which Katharine bestowed upon her cousin. The atmosphere was wonderfully congenial for thoughts of her own. She lost herself sometimes in such deep reverie that Cassandra, pausing, could look at her for moments unperceived. What could Katharine be thinking about, unless it were Ralph Denham? She was satisfied, by certain random replies, that Katharine had wandered a little from the subject of William s perfections. But Katharine made no sign. She always ended these pauses by saying something so natural that Cassandra was	Night And Day
"not to have a single acquaintance here!"	Catherine Morland	uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs.	room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it	her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I	a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had _any;_ it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go	Catherine began to feel something of disappointment she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had _any;_ it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see." "No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid." "No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you _must_ know somebody." "I don t, upon my word I wish I did. I wish I had a	they moved on something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear I wish you could get a partner." For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had _any;_ it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see." "No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid." "No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you _must_ know somebody." "I don t, upon my word I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back." After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over. "Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have had an agreeable ball." "Very agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn. "I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife; "I wish we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!" "We shall do better	of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine s entree into life could not take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it. Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine, however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within her friend s to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they moved on something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear I wish you could get a partner." For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had _any;_ it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see." "No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid." "No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you _must_ know somebody." "I don t, upon my word I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back." After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over. "Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have had an agreeable ball." "Very agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn. "I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife; "I wish we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!" "We shall do better another evening I hope," was Mr. Allen s consolation. The company began to disperse when the dancing was over enough to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the company only seen her three years before, they would _now_ have thought her exceedingly handsome. She _was_ looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it before her humble vanity was contented she felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention. CHAPTER 3 Every morning now brought its regular duties shops were to be visited; some new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at all. They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to her a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for	on, whereas she had imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they moved on something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear I wish you could get a partner." For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had _any;_ it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see." "No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid." "No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you _must_ know somebody." "I don t, upon my word I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back." After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over. "Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have had an agreeable ball." "Very agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn. "I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife; "I wish we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!" "We shall do better another evening I hope," was Mr. Allen s consolation. The company began to disperse when the dancing was over enough to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a heroine, who had	Northanger Abbey
"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."	Mrs. Norris	their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really	anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you	put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_	nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that	son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her. As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!" "Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers." "Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference	cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris's voice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was good-natured enough" ." Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her. As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!" "Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers." "Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn." "Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing." "To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are; on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference." Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful	write your letter whenever you choose. Would it make you happy to write to William?" "Yes, very." "Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we shall find everything there, and be sure of having the room to ourselves." "But, cousin, will it go to the post?" "Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and, as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing." "My uncle!" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look. "Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to frank." Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother could himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He continued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother which delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand his love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal. Fanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and a strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great timidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that she required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured, in the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and Julia, and being as merry as possible. From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris's voice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was good-natured enough" ." Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her. As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!" "Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers." "Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn." "Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing." "To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are; on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference." Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising talents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him. To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with proper masters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at learning, "she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people _were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what else was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very handy and quick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted." Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her cousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too lowly of her own claims to feel injured by it. From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in consequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring, and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort might arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss Bertrams continued to exercise their	age and strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was good-natured enough" ." Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her. As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!" "Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers." "Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn." "Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing." "To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are; on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference." Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising talents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before	Mansfield Park
said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.	No speaker	presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come	your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s	hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his	her to place her rose the wrong way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur, whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance. "What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life, perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She	spare rooms, even when the boys are here. Besides, he wouldn t get a room in the village. And he oughtn t to work if he s overworked." "But perhaps he doesn t want to see so much of us," Mary thought to herself, although outwardly she assented, and felt grateful to Elizabeth for supporting her in what was, of course, her desire. They were cutting roses at the time, and laying them, head by head, in a shallow basket. "If Ralph were here, he d find this very dull," Mary thought, with a little shiver of irritation, which led her to place her rose the wrong way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur, whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance. "What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life, perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She knew very well that he wished to be left alone, but she stuck to his side much as she might have stuck to some sleep-walker, whom she thought it right gradually to awaken. She could think of nothing to rouse him with except: "The garden s looking very nice, father." "Yes, yes, yes," said Mr. Datchet, running his words together in the same abstracted manner, and sinking his head yet lower upon his breast. And suddenly, as they turned their steps to retrace their way, he jerked out: "The traffic s very much increased, you know. More rolling-stock needed already.	it was to have an idle minute. An extreme rectitude of mind, rather than any gift, gave her weight in the family. When Mary wrote to say that she had asked Ralph Denham to stay with them, she added, out of deference to Elizabeth s character, that he was very nice, though rather queer, and had been overworking himself in London. No doubt Elizabeth would conclude that Ralph was in love with her, but there could be no doubt either that not a word of this would be spoken by either of them, unless, indeed, some catastrophe made mention of it unavoidable. Mary went down to Disham without knowing whether Ralph intended to come; but two or three days before Christmas she received a telegram from Ralph, asking her to take a room for him in the village. This was followed by a letter explaining that he hoped he might have his meals with them; but quiet, essential for his work, made it necessary to sleep out. Mary was walking in the garden with Elizabeth, and inspecting the roses, when the letter arrived. "But that s absurd," said Elizabeth decidedly, when the plan was explained to her. "There are five spare rooms, even when the boys are here. Besides, he wouldn t get a room in the village. And he oughtn t to work if he s overworked." "But perhaps he doesn t want to see so much of us," Mary thought to herself, although outwardly she assented, and felt grateful to Elizabeth for supporting her in what was, of course, her desire. They were cutting roses at the time, and laying them, head by head, in a shallow basket. "If Ralph were here, he d find this very dull," Mary thought, with a little shiver of irritation, which led her to place her rose the wrong way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur, whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance. "What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life, perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She knew very well that he wished to be left alone, but she stuck to his side much as she might have stuck to some sleep-walker, whom she thought it right gradually to awaken. She could think of nothing to rouse him with except: "The garden s looking very nice, father." "Yes, yes, yes," said Mr. Datchet, running his words together in the same abstracted manner, and sinking his head yet lower upon his breast. And suddenly, as they turned their steps to retrace their way, he jerked out: "The traffic s very much increased, you know. More rolling-stock needed already. Forty trucks went down yesterday by the 12.15 counted them myself. They ve taken off the 9.3, and given us an 8.30 instead suits the business men, you know. You came by the old 3.10 yesterday, I suppose?" She said "Yes," as he seemed to wish for a reply, and then he looked at his watch, and made off down the path towards the house, holding the rose at the same angle in front of him. Elizabeth had gone round to the side of the house, where the chickens lived, so that Mary found herself alone, holding Ralph s letter in her hand. She was uneasy. She had put off the season for thinking things out very successfully, and now that Ralph was actually coming, the next day, she could only wonder how her family would impress him. She thought it likely that her father would discuss the train service with him; Elizabeth would be bright and sensible, and always leaving the room to give messages to the servants. Her brothers had already said that they would give him a day s shooting. She was content to leave the problem of Ralph s relations to the young men obscure, trusting	the habit of connecting this particular walk with certain odes which he repeated duly, at the same time noting the condition of his flowers, and stooping now and again to pick any that were withered or overblown. On wet days, such was the power of habit over him, he rose from his chair at the same hour, and paced his study for the same length of time, pausing now and then to straighten some book in the bookcase, or alter the position of the two brass crucifixes standing upon cairns of serpentine stone upon the mantelpiece. His children had a great respect for him, credited him with far more learning than he actually possessed, and saw that his habits were not interfered with, if possible. Like most people who do things methodically, the Rector himself had more strength of purpose and power of self-sacrifice than of intellect or of originality. On cold and windy nights he rode off to visit sick people, who might need him, without a murmur; and by virtue of doing dull duties punctually, he was much employed upon committees and local Boards and Councils; and at this period of his life (he was sixty-eight) he was beginning to be commiserated by tender old ladies for the extreme leanness of his person, which, they said, was worn out upon the roads when it should have been resting before a comfortable fire. His elder daughter, Elizabeth, lived with him and managed the house, and already much resembled him in dry sincerity and methodical habit of mind; of the two sons one, Richard, was an estate agent, the other, Christopher, was reading for the Bar. At Christmas, naturally, they met together; and for a month past the arrangement of the Christmas week had been much in the mind of mistress and maid, who prided themselves every year more confidently upon the excellence of their equipment. The late Mrs. Datchet had left an excellent cupboard of linen, to which Elizabeth had succeeded at the age of nineteen, when her mother died, and the charge of the family rested upon the shoulders of the eldest daughter. She kept a fine flock of yellow chickens, sketched a little, certain rose-trees in the garden were committed specially to her care; and what with the care of the house, the care of the chickens, and the care of the poor, she scarcely knew what it was to have an idle minute. An extreme rectitude of mind, rather than any gift, gave her weight in the family. When Mary wrote to say that she had asked Ralph Denham to stay with them, she added, out of deference to Elizabeth s character, that he was very nice, though rather queer, and had been overworking himself in London. No doubt Elizabeth would conclude that Ralph was in love with her, but there could be no doubt either that not a word of this would be spoken by either of them, unless, indeed, some catastrophe made mention of it unavoidable. Mary went down to Disham without knowing whether Ralph intended to come; but two or three days before Christmas she received a telegram from Ralph, asking her to take a room for him in the village. This was followed by a letter explaining that he hoped he might have his meals with them; but quiet, essential for his work, made it necessary to sleep out. Mary was walking in the garden with Elizabeth, and inspecting the roses, when the letter arrived. "But that s absurd," said Elizabeth decidedly, when the plan was explained to her. "There are five spare rooms, even when the boys are here. Besides, he wouldn t get a room in the village. And he oughtn t to work if he s overworked." "But perhaps he doesn t want to see so much of us," Mary thought to herself, although outwardly she assented, and felt grateful to Elizabeth for supporting her in what was, of course, her desire. They were cutting roses at the time, and laying them, head by head, in a shallow basket. "If Ralph were here, he d find this very dull," Mary thought, with a little shiver of irritation, which led her to place her rose the wrong way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur, whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance. "What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life, perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She knew very well that he wished to be left alone, but she stuck to his side much as she might have stuck to some sleep-walker, whom she thought it right gradually to awaken. She could think of nothing to rouse him with except: "The garden s looking very nice, father." "Yes, yes, yes," said Mr. Datchet, running his words together in the same abstracted manner, and sinking his head yet lower upon his breast. And suddenly, as they turned their steps to retrace their way, he jerked out: "The traffic s very much increased, you know. More rolling-stock needed already. Forty trucks went down yesterday by the 12.15 counted them myself. They ve taken off the 9.3, and given us an 8.30 instead suits the business men, you know. You came by the old 3.10 yesterday, I suppose?" She said "Yes," as he seemed to wish for a reply, and then he looked at his watch, and made off down the path towards the house, holding the rose at the same angle in front of him. Elizabeth had gone round to the side of the house, where the chickens lived, so that Mary found herself alone, holding Ralph s letter in her hand. She was uneasy. She had put off the season for thinking things out very successfully, and now that Ralph was actually coming, the next day, she could only wonder how her family would impress him. She thought it likely that her father would discuss the train service with him; Elizabeth would be bright and sensible, and always leaving the room to give messages to the servants. Her brothers had already said that they would give him a day s shooting. She was content to leave the problem of Ralph s relations to the young men obscure, trusting that they would find some common ground of masculine agreement. But what would he think of _her?_ Would he see that she was different from the rest of the family? She devised a plan for taking him to her sitting-room, and artfully leading the talk towards the English poets, who now occupied prominent places in her little bookcase. Moreover, she might give him to understand, privately, that she, too, thought her family a queer one queer, yes, but not dull. That was the rock past which she was bent on steering him. And she thought how she would draw his attention to Edward s passion for Jorrocks, and the enthusiasm which led Christopher to collect moths and butterflies though he was now twenty-two. Perhaps Elizabeth s sketching, if the fruits were invisible, might lend color to the general effect which she wished to produce of a family, eccentric and limited, perhaps, but not dull. Edward, she perceived, was rolling the lawn, for the sake of exercise; and the sight of him, with pink cheeks, bright little brown eyes, and a general resemblance to a clumsy young cart-horse in its winter coat of dusty brown hair, made Mary violently ashamed of her ambitious scheming. She loved him precisely as he was; she loved them all; and as she walked by his side, up and down, and down and up, her strong moral sense administered a sound drubbing to the vain and romantic element aroused in her by the mere thought of Ralph. She felt quite certain that, for good or for bad, she was very like the rest of her family. Sitting in the corner of a third-class railway carriage, on the afternoon of the following day, Ralph made several inquiries of a commercial traveler in the opposite corner. They centered round a village called Lampsher, not three miles, he understood, from Lincoln; was there a big house in Lampsher, he asked, inhabited by a gentleman of the name of Otway? The traveler knew nothing, but rolled the name of Otway on his tongue, reflectively, and the sound of it gratified Ralph amazingly. It gave him an excuse to take a letter from his pocket in order to verify the address. "Stogdon House, Lampsher, Lincoln," he read out. "You ll find somebody to direct you at Lincoln," said the man; and Ralph had to confess that he was not bound there	roads when it should have been resting before a comfortable fire. His elder daughter, Elizabeth, lived with him and managed the house, and already much resembled him in dry sincerity and methodical habit of mind; of the two sons one, Richard, was an estate agent, the other, Christopher, was reading for the Bar. At Christmas, naturally, they met together; and for a month past the arrangement of the Christmas week had been much in the mind of mistress and maid, who prided themselves every year more confidently upon the excellence of their equipment. The late Mrs. Datchet had left an excellent cupboard of linen, to which Elizabeth had succeeded at the age of nineteen, when her mother died, and the charge of the family rested upon the shoulders of the eldest daughter. She kept a fine flock of yellow chickens, sketched a little, certain rose-trees in the garden were committed specially to her care; and what with the care of the house, the care of the chickens, and the care of the poor, she scarcely knew what it was to have an idle minute. An extreme rectitude of mind, rather than any gift, gave her weight in the family. When Mary wrote to say that she had asked Ralph Denham to stay with them, she added, out of deference to Elizabeth s character, that he was very nice, though rather queer, and had been overworking himself in London. No doubt Elizabeth would conclude that Ralph was in love with her, but there could be no doubt either that not a word of this would be spoken by either of them, unless, indeed, some catastrophe made mention of it unavoidable. Mary went down to Disham without knowing whether Ralph intended to come; but two or three days before Christmas she received a telegram from Ralph, asking her to take a room for him in the village. This was followed by a letter explaining that he hoped he might have his meals with them; but quiet, essential for his work, made it necessary to sleep out. Mary was walking in the garden with Elizabeth, and inspecting the roses, when the letter arrived. "But that s absurd," said Elizabeth decidedly, when the plan was explained to her. "There are five spare rooms, even when the boys are here. Besides, he wouldn t get a room in the village. And he oughtn t to work if he s overworked." "But perhaps he doesn t want to see so much of us," Mary thought to herself, although outwardly she assented, and felt grateful to Elizabeth for supporting her in what was, of course, her desire. They were cutting roses at the time, and laying them, head by head, in a shallow basket. "If Ralph were here, he d find this very dull," Mary thought, with a little shiver of irritation, which led her to place her rose the wrong way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur, whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance. "What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life, perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She knew very well that he wished to be left alone, but she stuck to his side much as she might have stuck to some sleep-walker, whom she thought it right gradually to awaken. She could think of nothing to rouse him with except: "The garden s looking very nice, father." "Yes, yes, yes," said Mr. Datchet, running his words together in the same abstracted manner, and sinking his head yet lower upon his breast. And suddenly, as they turned their steps to retrace their way, he jerked out: "The traffic s very much increased, you know. More rolling-stock needed already. Forty trucks went down yesterday by the 12.15 counted them myself. They ve taken off the 9.3, and given us an 8.30 instead suits the business men, you know. You came by the old 3.10 yesterday, I suppose?" She said "Yes," as he seemed to wish for a reply, and then he looked at his watch, and made off down the path towards the house, holding the rose at the same angle in front of him. Elizabeth had gone round to the side of the house, where the chickens lived, so that Mary found herself alone, holding Ralph s letter in her hand. She was uneasy. She had put off the season for thinking things out very successfully, and now that Ralph was actually coming, the next day, she could only wonder how her family would impress him. She thought it likely that her father would discuss the train service with him; Elizabeth would be bright and sensible, and always leaving the room to give messages to the servants. Her brothers had already said that they would give him a day s shooting. She was content to leave the problem of Ralph s relations to the young men obscure, trusting that they would find some common ground of masculine agreement. But what would he think of _her?_ Would he see that she was different from the rest of the family? She devised a plan for taking him to her sitting-room, and artfully leading the talk towards the English poets, who now occupied prominent places in her little bookcase. Moreover, she might give him to understand, privately, that she, too, thought her family a queer one queer, yes, but not dull. That was the rock past which she was bent on	Night And Day
It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.	No speaker	pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take	their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some	would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be	golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me	Don, I can only think of one thing." "What's that, Jem?" "How to get a bit of sleep, for the sun has made me as drowsy as a beedle." "Well, then, sit down and sleep." Jem wanted no persuasion, and in five minutes he was breathing very heavily, while Don sat watching the beauties of nature, the clouds of steam floating above the volcanic island, the wondrous sheen of the sea in the sun, the great lace-like tree-ferns which drooped over the mossy growth at the forest edge, and the beautiful butterflies which floated about like gaily-painted flowers in the golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me run away. I'll stop and bear it like a man." Somehow Don felt lighter in heart after coming to this determination; and after looking round and wondering how long the explorers would be before they returned, and also wishing he could have been of the party, he leaned his elbows on the side of the boat and gazed down into the clear water, and through it at the beautiful lace-like pattern made by the sun, casting the netted shadow of the ripples on the soft pebbly sand. Now and then a shoal of fish glided in and dashed away. Then	and it won't be very long before you'll grow into chiefs." He nodded, and then said a few words to his companion, who smiled at the two strangers in turn, after which they went off together into the forest, and were gone. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem. "Don't know whether it arn't safer aboard ship after all." "Why do you say that?" cried Don. "Because whenever that black chap looks at me, he gives me the shivers." "Why?" "Seems to me that he's too fond of you, Mas' Don, and as if he was thinking how good you'd be." "Nonsense!" cried Don, who was enjoying the fruit. "Have some more of these. I wonder whether there are any more good kinds of fruit grow ashore." "Sure to be." "Do you think if we left the ship, Jem, and found our way right along the coast to some place where we could live till the ship had gone, and then wait till another ship came, we could get enough to eat?" "Dessay we could." "Because if we did, we should be quite independent, and could do as we liked." "To be sure, that's the way it seems to me; but just now, Mas' Don, I can only think of one thing." "What's that, Jem?" "How to get a bit of sleep, for the sun has made me as drowsy as a beedle." "Well, then, sit down and sleep." Jem wanted no persuasion, and in five minutes he was breathing very heavily, while Don sat watching the beauties of nature, the clouds of steam floating above the volcanic island, the wondrous sheen of the sea in the sun, the great lace-like tree-ferns which drooped over the mossy growth at the forest edge, and the beautiful butterflies which floated about like gaily-painted flowers in the golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me run away. I'll stop and bear it like a man." Somehow Don felt lighter in heart after coming to this determination; and after looking round and wondering how long the explorers would be before they returned, and also wishing he could have been of the party, he leaned his elbows on the side of the boat and gazed down into the clear water, and through it at the beautiful lace-like pattern made by the sun, casting the netted shadow of the ripples on the soft pebbly sand. Now and then a shoal of fish glided in and dashed away. Then one brilliantly decked in gold and silver and blue came floating by, and Don watched it eagerly, wishing the while that he had a line. He was leaning over the side in this way, gazing down at the water, now about four feet deep where the boat had swung, when he became aware of something pale and shadowy some little distance off. Looking at it in a sloping direction made the ocean water seem so dense that he could not make out what it was for some little time. At first it seemed to be a dimly-seen patch of seaweed; then it appeared to be too regular and rounded, and it struck him that it must be a large transparent jelly-fish floating in with the tide, till he made out that it was continued backward from him, and that it was larger than he had imagined; and as he looked the object gradually grew plainer and more distinct. It was still shadowy and grey, and had a peculiar, strange attraction, which made him lean more over the side till a curious nightmare-like sensation came over him, and as he realised that the object was alive, and that he was looking	and swear as there shall be no tattooing and meat-pie nonsense, and I'd go ashore with them now." "No, Jem, that would not do till we know a little more of them, and I can't help hesitating now it comes to the point." "That's just what I felt, Mas' Don," said Jem, with a perplexed look on his face. "Come, Jem, who's stealing some one else's ideas now?" "Like fruit?" said the tattooed Englishman, coming down to the water's edge. "That depends," said Jem, dubiously. "What is it?" "Karaka," said their new friend, offering a basket of an olive-like fruit. "Good to eat?" "Yes; try it." "S'pose you eat some first," said Jem suspiciously. The Englishman laughed, and took some of the fruit, and began to chew it. "Afraid these would drug you so that I could steal the boat?" "I didn't know. Wouldn't be the first who has stolen a boat, I suppose" said Jem sulkily. "Wouldn't be the first who has stolen a boat, I suppose." Don took some of the berries, and began to eat, and this emboldened Jem, who tasted one in a very suspicious and doubting way. "Hullo!" he said, with his countenance brightening; "know what these here taste like, Mas' Don?" "Very mellow apple?" "No; like the medlars that grew in my grandmother's garden." "That's right!" said the Englishman; and his New Zealand companion began to select the best and ripest of the fruit from the basket and handed them to Don, watching him eat with what was meant for a pleasant smile; but as his face resembled one that had been carved in a piece of mahogany, and afterwards ornamented with streaks and scrolls, the effect was more repellent than attractive. "My pakeha," said the great fellow with a childlike show of satisfaction; and he looked from one to the other and laughed. "Here, he's took to you regular, youngster; only look out, for he'll want _utu_ for it some time. Eh, Ngati? Utu?" "_Utu_, _utu_" said the chief, smiling. "What's utu?" said Jem, in a surly tone. "Payment." "Oh, then we'll give him a bit of 'bacco." He offered the New Zealander his tobacco-bag, which was quietly annexed with a smile. "There, we'll leave you the fruit. They're good eating, my lads, and if at any time before you go, you feel disposed to settle down with us, there's plenty of room, and it won't be very long before you'll grow into chiefs." He nodded, and then said a few words to his companion, who smiled at the two strangers in turn, after which they went off together into the forest, and were gone. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem. "Don't know whether it arn't safer aboard ship after all." "Why do you say that?" cried Don. "Because whenever that black chap looks at me, he gives me the shivers." "Why?" "Seems to me that he's too fond of you, Mas' Don, and as if he was thinking how good you'd be." "Nonsense!" cried Don, who was enjoying the fruit. "Have some more of these. I wonder whether there are any more good kinds of fruit grow ashore." "Sure to be." "Do you think if we left the ship, Jem, and found our way right along the coast to some place where we could live till the ship had gone, and then wait till another ship came, we could get enough to eat?" "Dessay we could." "Because if we did, we should be quite independent, and could do as we liked." "To be sure, that's the way it seems to me; but just now, Mas' Don, I can only think of one thing." "What's that, Jem?" "How to get a bit of sleep, for the sun has made me as drowsy as a beedle." "Well, then, sit down and sleep." Jem wanted no persuasion, and in five minutes he was breathing very heavily, while Don sat watching the beauties of nature, the clouds of steam floating above the volcanic island, the wondrous sheen of the sea in the sun, the great lace-like tree-ferns which drooped over the mossy growth at the forest edge, and the beautiful butterflies which floated about like gaily-painted flowers in the golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me run away. I'll stop and bear it like a man." Somehow Don felt lighter in heart after coming to this determination; and after looking round and wondering how long the explorers would be before they returned, and also wishing he could have been of the party, he leaned his elbows on the side of the boat and gazed down into the clear water, and through it at the beautiful lace-like pattern made by the sun, casting the netted shadow of the ripples on the soft pebbly sand. Now and then a shoal of fish glided in and dashed away. Then one brilliantly decked in gold and silver and blue came floating by, and Don watched it eagerly, wishing the while that he had a line. He was leaning over the side in this way, gazing down at the water, now about four feet deep where the boat had swung, when he became aware of something pale and shadowy some little distance off. Looking at it in a sloping direction made the ocean water seem so dense that he could not make out what it was for some little time. At first it seemed to be a dimly-seen patch of seaweed; then it appeared to be too regular and rounded, and it struck him that it must be a large transparent jelly-fish floating in with the tide, till he made out that it was continued backward from him, and that it was larger than he had imagined; and as he looked the object gradually grew plainer and more distinct. It was still shadowy and grey, and had a peculiar, strange attraction, which made him lean more over the side till a curious nightmare-like sensation came over him, and as he realised that the object was alive, and that he was looking down at two strange dull eyes, he felt that he could not shrink back, although the creeping chilly feeling which came over him seemed like a warning of danger. Then it all appeared more like a dream, in which he was striving hard to get away, and all the time obliged to crouch there gazing at that creature whose eyes were fixed upon him, and which imperceptibly grew plainer to his sight. The intensity of the position grew more and more painful during what appeared to be a long time. He tried to call to Jem, who was asleep not six feet away, but his mouth felt dry. He endeavoured to reach out and kick him, but he could not stir, and still the creature advanced till, all at once, there was a tremendous disturbance in the water; something seemed to rise and strike him a violent blow in the chest, and the next moment he was seated in the bottom of the boat, which was rocking violently, and staring stupidly at Jem, who sat up staring back. "What yer do that for?" cried Jem angrily. "I'd only just closed my eyes." "I did not do anything," faltered Don, shivering. "Yes, you did!" cried Jem. "Asked me to sit up and watch, and I'd ha' done it. Needn't ha' played tricks." "I--I--" "There, don't say you didn't, Mas' Don. Boat's rocking now, and you'd better swab up that water. Nice row there'd be if the skipper come back and found the boat all wet." Jem picked up the swab and began to remove the water himself, and in doing so he noticed Don's face. "Why, hullo, Mas' Don! What's the matter? You look as white as--Why, what now?" Jem was about to lean over the side and wring the swab, when Don sprang astern and dragged him back. "Look! Look!" he cried, pointing. Jem followed the direction of the pointing finger, and shrank away with a shudder. "What? A shark!" he exclaimed. "Yes; it rose at me out of the water, and struck me in the chest, and I fell back, and so did he." "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem, as he seized the boathook, and rested it on the gunwale. "Don't touch, it," whispered Don; "it may spring out of the water at you." "It had better not," said Jem. "Hah!" He drove the boathook down with all his might, striking	and found our way right along the coast to some place where we could live till the ship had gone, and then wait till another ship came, we could get enough to eat?" "Dessay we could." "Because if we did, we should be quite independent, and could do as we liked." "To be sure, that's the way it seems to me; but just now, Mas' Don, I can only think of one thing." "What's that, Jem?" "How to get a bit of sleep, for the sun has made me as drowsy as a beedle." "Well, then, sit down and sleep." Jem wanted no persuasion, and in five minutes he was breathing very heavily, while Don sat watching the beauties of nature, the clouds of steam floating above the volcanic island, the wondrous sheen of the sea in the sun, the great lace-like tree-ferns which drooped over the mossy growth at the forest edge, and the beautiful butterflies which floated about like gaily-painted flowers in the golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me run away. I'll stop and bear it like a man." Somehow Don felt lighter in heart after coming to this determination; and after looking round and wondering how long the explorers would be before they returned, and also wishing he could have been of the party, he leaned his elbows on the side of the boat and gazed down into the clear water, and through it at the beautiful lace-like pattern made by the sun, casting the netted shadow of the ripples on the soft pebbly sand. Now and then a shoal of fish glided in and dashed away. Then one brilliantly decked in gold and silver and blue came floating by, and Don watched it eagerly, wishing the while that he had a line. He was leaning over the side in this way, gazing down at the water, now about four feet deep where the boat had swung, when he became aware of something pale and shadowy some little distance off. Looking at it in a sloping direction made the ocean water seem so dense that he could not make out what it was for some little time. At first it seemed to be a dimly-seen patch of seaweed; then it appeared to be too regular and rounded, and it struck him that it must be a large transparent jelly-fish floating in with the tide, till he made out that it was continued backward from him, and that it was larger than he had imagined; and as he looked the object gradually grew plainer and more distinct. It was still shadowy and grey, and had a peculiar, strange attraction, which made him lean more over the side till a curious nightmare-like sensation came over him, and as he realised that the object was alive, and that he was looking down at two strange dull eyes, he felt that he could not shrink back, although the creeping chilly feeling which came over him seemed like a warning of danger. Then it all appeared more like a dream, in which he was striving hard to get away, and all the time obliged	Don Lavington
"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."	Ralph Denham	present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots	lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed	he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She	grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous,	from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me,"	the world I could live with happily. And if you feel the same about me as you do, don t you, Mary? we should make each other happy." Here he paused, and seemed to be in no hurry for an answer; he seemed, indeed, to be continuing his own thoughts. "Yes, but I m afraid I couldn t do it," Mary said at last. The casual and rather hurried way in which she spoke, together with the fact that she was saying the exact opposite of what he expected her to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly. "You couldn t do it?" he asked. "No, I couldn t marry you," she replied. "You don t care for me?" She made no answer. "Well, Mary," he said, with a curious laugh, "I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did." They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: "I don t believe you, Mary. You re not telling me the truth." "I m too tired to argue, Ralph," she replied, turning her head away from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather, "there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?" "Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of	way they spoke little. In his own mind Ralph was following the passage of the Otway carriage over the heath; he then went back to the five or ten minutes that he had spent with Katharine, and examined each word with the care that a scholar displays upon the irregularities of an ancient text. He was determined that the glow, the romance, the atmosphere of this meeting should not paint what he must in future regard as sober facts. On her side Mary was silent, not because her thoughts took much handling, but because her mind seemed empty of thought as her heart of feeling. Only Ralph s presence, as she knew, preserved this numbness, for she could foresee a time of loneliness when many varieties of pain would beset her. At the present moment her effort was to preserve what she could of the wreck of her self-respect, for such she deemed that momentary glimpse of her love so involuntarily revealed to Ralph. In the light of reason it did not much matter, perhaps, but it was her instinct to be careful of that vision of herself which keeps pace so evenly beside every one of us, and had been damaged by her confession. The gray night coming down over the country was kind to her; and she thought that one of these days she would find comfort in sitting upon the earth, alone, beneath a tree. Looking through the darkness, she marked the swelling ground and the tree. Ralph made her start by saying abruptly; "What I was going to say when we were interrupted at lunch was that if you go to America I shall come, too. It can t be harder to earn a living there than it is here. However, that s not the point. The point is, Mary, that I want to marry you. Well, what do you say?" He spoke firmly, waited for no answer, and took her arm in his. "You know me by this time, the good and the bad," he went on. "You know my tempers. I ve tried to let you know my faults. Well, what do you say, Mary?" She said nothing, but this did not seem to strike him. "In most ways, at least in the important ways, as you said, we know each other and we think alike. I believe you are the only person in the world I could live with happily. And if you feel the same about me as you do, don t you, Mary? we should make each other happy." Here he paused, and seemed to be in no hurry for an answer; he seemed, indeed, to be continuing his own thoughts. "Yes, but I m afraid I couldn t do it," Mary said at last. The casual and rather hurried way in which she spoke, together with the fact that she was saying the exact opposite of what he expected her to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly. "You couldn t do it?" he asked. "No, I couldn t marry you," she replied. "You don t care for me?" She made no answer. "Well, Mary," he said, with a curious laugh, "I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did." They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: "I don t believe you, Mary. You re not telling me the truth." "I m too tired to argue, Ralph," she replied, turning her head away from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather, "there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?" "Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or deeds that might have made her think badly of him. In his present mood instances came but too quickly, and on top of them this culminating proof of his baseness that he had asked her to marry him when his reasons for such a proposal were selfish and half-hearted. "You needn t answer," he said grimly. "There are reasons enough, I know. But must they kill our friendship, Mary? Let me keep that, at least." "Oh," she thought to herself, with a sudden rush of anguish which threatened disaster to her self-respect, "it has come to this to this when I could have given him everything!" "Yes, we can still be friends," she said, with what firmness she could muster. "I shall want your friendship," he said. He added, "If you find it possible, let me see you as often as you can. The oftener the better. I shall want your help." She promised this, and they went on to talk calmly of things that had no reference to their feelings a talk which, in its constraint, was infinitely sad to both of them. One more reference was made to the state of things between them late that night, when Elizabeth had gone to her room, and the two young men had stumbled off to bed in such a state of sleep that they hardly felt the floor beneath their feet after a day s shooting. Mary drew her chair a little nearer to the fire, for the logs were burning low, and at this time of night it was hardly worth while to replenish them. Ralph was reading, but she had noticed for some time that his eyes instead of following the print were fixed rather above the page with an intensity of gloom that came to weigh upon her mind. She had not weakened in her resolve not to give way, for reflection had only made her more bitterly certain that, if she gave way, it would be to her own wish and not to his. But she had determined that there was no reason why he should suffer if her reticence were the cause of his suffering. Therefore, although she found it	of these days she would find comfort in sitting upon the earth, alone, beneath a tree. Looking through the darkness, she marked the swelling ground and the tree. Ralph made her start by saying abruptly; "What I was going to say when we were interrupted at lunch was that if you go to America I shall come, too. It can t be harder to earn a living there than it is here. However, that s not the point. The point is, Mary, that I want to marry you. Well, what do you say?" He spoke firmly, waited for no answer, and took her arm in his. "You know me by this time, the good and the bad," he went on. "You know my tempers. I ve tried to let you know my faults. Well, what do you say, Mary?" She said nothing, but this did not seem to strike him. "In most ways, at least in the important ways, as you said, we know each other and we think alike. I believe you are the only person in the world I could live with happily. And if you feel the same about me as you do, don t you, Mary? we should make each other happy." Here he paused, and seemed to be in no hurry for an answer; he seemed, indeed, to be continuing his own thoughts. "Yes, but I m afraid I couldn t do it," Mary said at last. The casual and rather hurried way in which she spoke, together with the fact that she was saying the exact opposite of what he expected her to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly. "You couldn t do it?" he asked. "No, I couldn t marry you," she replied. "You don t care for me?" She made no answer. "Well, Mary," he said, with a curious laugh, "I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did." They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: "I don t believe you, Mary. You re not telling me the truth." "I m too tired to argue, Ralph," she replied, turning her head away from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather, "there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?" "Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of	Night And Day
said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,	No speaker	drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children	so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different,	and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with	ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him	employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty. Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, "Not now, my dears; in the evening." On their return in the evening, he said, "I am not able yet to-morrow." He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate with him." "He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him aside?" "He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them." "Let me know," said her father, "if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark view	the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle before the people moved. When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. "I believe, father," said Louisa, "he will not come back to town to-night." Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more. In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty. Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, "Not now, my dears; in the evening." On their return in the evening, he said, "I am not able yet to-morrow." He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate with him." "He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him aside?" "He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them." "Let me know," said her father, "if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark view as mine." "I fear, father," hesitated Louisa, "that he must have made some representation to Stephen Blackpool perhaps in my name, perhaps in his own which induced him to do in good faith and honesty, what he had never done before, and to wait about the Bank those two or three nights before he left the town." "Too plain!" returned the father. "Too plain!" He shaded his face, and remained silent for some moments. Recovering himself, he said: "And now, how is he to be found? How is he to be saved from justice? In the few hours that I can possibly allow to elapse before I publish the truth, how is he to be found by us, and only by us? Ten thousand pounds could not effect it." "Sissy has effected it, father." He raised his eyes to where she stood, like a good fairy in his house, and said in a tone of softened gratitude and grateful kindness, "It is always you, my child!" "We had our fears," Sissy explained, glancing at Louisa, "before yesterday; and when I saw you brought to the side of the litter last night, and heard what passed (being close to Rachael all	"Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And your prayer is mine." "You ha' a father. Will yo tak' a message to him?" "He is here," said Louisa, with dread. "Shall I bring him to you?" "If yo please." Louisa returned with her father. Standing hand-in-hand, they both looked down upon the solemn countenance. "Sir, yo will clear me an' mak my name good wi' aw men. This I leave to yo." Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how? "Sir," was the reply: "yor son will tell yo how. Ask him. I mak no charges: I leave none ahint me: not a single word. I ha' seen an' spok'n wi' yor son, one night. I ask no more o' yo than that yo clear me an' I trust to yo to do 't." The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at the star: "Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star!" They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead. "Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night, my dear!" "I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way." "Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!" They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide landscape; Rachael always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral procession. The star had shown him where to find the God of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer's rest. CHAPTER VII WHELP-HUNTING BEFORE the ring formed round the Old Hell Shaft was broken, one figure had disappeared from within it. Mr. Bounderby and his shadow had not stood near Louisa, who held her father's arm, but in a retired place by themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle before the people moved. When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. "I believe, father," said Louisa, "he will not come back to town to-night." Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more. In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty. Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, "Not now, my dears; in the evening." On their return in the evening, he said, "I am not able yet to-morrow." He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate with him." "He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him aside?" "He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them." "Let me know," said her father, "if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark view as mine." "I fear, father," hesitated Louisa, "that he must have made some representation to Stephen Blackpool perhaps in my name, perhaps in his own which induced him to do in good faith and honesty, what he had never done before, and to wait about the Bank those two or three nights before he left the town." "Too plain!" returned the father. "Too plain!" He shaded his face, and remained silent for some moments. Recovering himself, he said: "And now, how is he to be found? How is he to be saved from justice? In the few hours that I can possibly allow to elapse before I publish the truth, how is he to be found by us, and only by us? Ten thousand pounds could not effect it." "Sissy has effected it, father." He raised his eyes to where she stood, like a good fairy in his house, and said in a tone of softened gratitude and grateful kindness, "It is always you, my child!" "We had our fears," Sissy explained, glancing at Louisa, "before yesterday; and when I saw you brought to the side of the litter last night, and heard what passed (being close to Rachael all the time), I went to him when no one saw, and said to him," "Don't look at me. See where your father is. Escape at once, for his sake and your own!" "He was in a tremble before I whispered to him, and he started and trembled more then, and said," "Where can I go? I have very little money, and I don't know who will hide me!" "I thought of father's old circus. I have not forgotten where Mr. Sleary goes at this time of year, and I read of him in a paper only the other day. I told him to hurry there, and tell his name, and ask Mr. Sleary to hide him till I came." "I'll get to him before the morning," "he said. And I saw him shrink away among the people." "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed his father. "He may be got abroad yet." It was the more hopeful as the town to which Sissy had directed him was within three hours' journey of Liverpool, whence he could be swiftly dispatched to any part of the world. But, caution being necessary in communicating with him for there was a greater danger every moment of his being suspected now, and nobody could be sure at heart but that Mr. Bounderby himself, in a bullying vein of public zeal, might play a Roman part it was consented that Sissy and Louisa should repair to the place in question, by a circuitous course, alone; and that the unhappy father, setting forth in an opposite direction, should get round to the same bourne by another and wider route. It was further agreed that he should not present himself to Mr. Sleary, lest his intentions should be mistrusted, or the intelligence of his arrival should cause his son to take flight anew; but, that the communication should be left to Sissy and Louisa to open; and that they should inform the cause of so much misery and disgrace, of his father's being at hand and of the purpose for which they had come. When these arrangements had been well considered and were fully understood by all three, it was time to begin to carry them into execution. Early in the afternoon, Mr. Gradgrind walked direct from his own house into the country, to be taken up on the line by which he was to travel; and at night the remaining two	themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle before the people moved. When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. "I believe, father," said Louisa, "he will not come back to town to-night." Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more. In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty. Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, "Not now, my dears; in the evening." On their return in the evening, he said, "I am not able yet to-morrow." He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate with him." "He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him aside?" "He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them." "Let me know," said her father, "if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark view as mine." "I fear, father," hesitated Louisa, "that he must have made some representation to Stephen Blackpool perhaps in my name, perhaps in his own which induced him to do in good faith and honesty, what he had never done before, and to wait about the Bank those two or three nights before he left the town." "Too plain!" returned the father. "Too plain!" He shaded his face, and remained silent for some moments. Recovering himself, he said: "And now, how is he to be found? How is he to be saved from justice? In the few hours that I can possibly allow to elapse before I publish the truth, how is he to be found by us, and only by us? Ten thousand pounds could not effect it." "Sissy has effected it, father." He raised his eyes to where she stood, like a good fairy in his house, and said in a tone of softened gratitude and grateful kindness, "It is always you, my child!" "We had our fears," Sissy explained, glancing at Louisa, "before yesterday; and when I saw you brought to the side of the litter last night, and heard what passed (being close to Rachael all the time), I went to him when no one saw, and said to him," "Don't look at me. See where your father is. Escape at once, for his sake and your own!" "He was in a tremble before I whispered to him, and he started	Hard Times
"No, sir,"	Mr. Frank Churchill	it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I	can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it	if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it	his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?" "Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment." "Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had	horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse. "By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?" Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever had any such plan." "Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago." "Me! impossible!" "Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?" "Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment." "Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?" Emma was out	what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight, "Myself creating what I saw," brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane. He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation. As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse. "By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?" Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever had any such plan." "Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago." "Me! impossible!" "Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?" "Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment." "Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?" Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston's hint. "Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly	not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value." Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation. CHAPTER V In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her grandmother's; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton's activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her will. Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father's hints, his mother-in-law's guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence between them--he thought so at least--symptoms of admiration on his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any of Emma's errors of imagination. _She_ was not present when the suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight, "Myself creating what I saw," brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane. He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation. As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse. "By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?" Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever had any such plan." "Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago." "Me! impossible!" "Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?" "Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment." "Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?" Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston's hint. "Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother--indeed I do not know who is not--and she had mentioned it to her in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the least thing in the world. Where is she?--Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming.--Extraordinary dream, indeed!" They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss Bates's in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill's face, where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the determination of catching her eye--he seemed watching her intently--in vain, however, if it were so--Jane passed between them into the hall, and looked at neither. There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move. "Miss Woodhouse," said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind him, which he could reach as he sat, "have your nephews taken away their alphabets--their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters one morning. I want to puzzle you again." Emma was pleased with the thought; and	suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight, "Myself creating what I saw," brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane. He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation. As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse. "By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?" Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever had any such plan." "Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago." "Me! impossible!" "Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?" "Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment." "Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?" Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston's hint. "Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother--indeed I do not know who is not--and she had mentioned it to her in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the least thing in the world. Where is she?--Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming.--Extraordinary dream, indeed!" They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss Bates's in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill's face, where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to hers; but	Emma
Her mother dropped her head in her hands.	No speaker	to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I	to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll	be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from	around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up	Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up early and practising hard for her interview with the managing star of "Martin's Blackbirds." When she arrived at the theatre, Hattie Sterling met her with frank friendliness. "I 'm glad you came early, Kitty," she remarked, "for maybe you can get a chance to talk with Martin before he begins rehearsal and gets all worked up. He 'll be a little less like a bear then. But even if you don't see him before then, wait, and don't get scared if he tries to bluff you. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite." When Mr. Martin came	stage people respectable up here." "Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust." "You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a pen'tentiary sentence is de same as a divo'ce, an' if Be'y should live to git out, we 'd have to ma'y ag'in. I would n't min' dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up early and practising hard for her interview with the managing star of "Martin's Blackbirds." When she arrived at the theatre, Hattie Sterling met her with frank friendliness. "I 'm glad you came early, Kitty," she remarked, "for maybe you can get a chance to talk with Martin before he begins rehearsal and gets all worked up. He 'll be a little less like a bear then. But even if you don't see him before then, wait, and don't get scared if he tries to bluff you. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite." When Mr. Martin came in that morning, he had other ideas than that of seeing applicants for places. His show must begin in two weeks, and it was advertised to be larger and better than ever before, when really nothing at all had been done for it. The promise of this advertisement must be fulfilled. Mr. Martin was late, and was out of humour with every one else on account of it. He came in hurried, fierce, and important. "Mornin', Mr. Smith, mornin', Mrs. Jones. Ha, ladies and gentlemen, all here?" He shot every word out of his mouth as if the after-taste of it were unpleasant to him. He walked among the chorus like an angry king among his vassals, and his glance was a flash of insolent fire. From his head to his feet he was the very epitome of self-sufficient, brutal conceit. Kitty trembled as she noted the hush that fell on the people at his entrance. She felt like rushing out of the room. She could never face this terrible man. She trembled more as she found his eyes fixed upon her. "Who 's that?" he asked, disregarding her, as if she had been a stick or a stone. "Well,	Joe did not rise. "I 'll see you later, Kit," he said; "I ain't goin' just yet. Say," he added, when his sister was gone, "you 're a hot one. What do you want to give her all that con for? She 'll never get in." "Joe," said Hattie, "don't you get awful tired of being a jackass? Sometimes I want to kiss you, and sometimes I feel as if I had to kick you. I 'll compromise with you now by letting you bring me some more beer. This got all stale while your sister was here. I saw she did n't like it, and so I would n't drink any more for fear she 'd try to keep up with me." "Kit is a good deal of a jay yet," Joe remarked wisely. "Oh, yes, this world is full of jays. Lots of 'em have seen enough to make 'em wise, but they 're still jays, and don't know it. That 's the worst of it. They go around thinking they 're it, when they ain't even in the game. Go on and get the beer." And Joe went, feeling vaguely that he had been sat upon. Kit flew home with joyous heart to tell her mother of her good prospects. She burst into the room, crying, "Oh, ma, ma, Miss Hattie thinks I 'll do to go on the stage. Ain't it grand?" She did not meet with the expected warmth of response from her mother. "I do' know as it 'll be so gran'. F'om what I see of dem stage people dey don't seem to 'mount to much. De way dem gals shows demse'ves is right down bad to me. Is you goin' to dress lak dem we seen dat night?" Kit hung her head. "I guess I 'll have to." "Well, ef you have to, I 'd ruther see you daid any day. Oh, Kit, my little gal, don't do it, don't do it. Don't you go down lak yo' brothah Joe. Joe 's gone." "Why, ma, you don't understand. Joe 's somebody now. You ought to 've heard how Miss Hattie talked about him. She said he 's been her friend for a long while." "Her frien', yes, an' his own inimy. You need n' pattern aftah dat gal, Kit. She ruint Joe, an' she 's aftah you now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here." "Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust." "You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a pen'tentiary sentence is de same as a divo'ce, an' if Be'y should live to git out, we 'd have to ma'y ag'in. I would n't min' dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up early and practising hard for her interview with the managing star of "Martin's Blackbirds." When she arrived at the theatre, Hattie Sterling met her with frank friendliness. "I 'm glad you came early, Kitty," she remarked, "for maybe you can get a chance to talk with Martin before he begins rehearsal and gets all worked up. He 'll be a little less like a bear then. But even if you don't see him before then, wait, and don't get scared if he tries to bluff you. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite." When Mr. Martin came in that morning, he had other ideas than that of seeing applicants for places. His show must begin in two weeks, and it was advertised to be larger and better than ever before, when really nothing at all had been done for it. The promise of this advertisement must be fulfilled. Mr. Martin was late, and was out of humour with every one else on account of it. He came in hurried, fierce, and important. "Mornin', Mr. Smith, mornin', Mrs. Jones. Ha, ladies and gentlemen, all here?" He shot every word out of his mouth as if the after-taste of it were unpleasant to him. He walked among the chorus like an angry king among his vassals, and his glance was a flash of insolent fire. From his head to his feet he was the very epitome of self-sufficient, brutal conceit. Kitty trembled as she noted the hush that fell on the people at his entrance. She felt like rushing out of the room. She could never face this terrible man. She trembled more as she found his eyes fixed upon her. "Who 's that?" he asked, disregarding her, as if she had been a stick or a stone. "Well, don't snap her head off. It 's a girl friend of mine that wants a place," said Hattie. She was the only one who would brave Martin. "Humph. Let her wait. I ain't got no time to hear any one now. Get yourselves in line, you all who are on to that first chorus, while I 'm getting into my sweat-shirt." He disappeared behind a screen, whence he emerged arrayed, or only half arrayed, in a thick absorbing shirt and a thin pair of woollen trousers. Then the work began. The man was indefatigable. He was like the spirit of energy. He was in every place about the stage at once, leading the chorus, showing them steps, twisting some awkward girl into shape, shouting, gesticulating, abusing the pianist. "Now, now," he would shout, "the left foot on that beat. Bah, bah, stop! You walk like a lot of tin soldiers. Are your joints rusty? Do you want oil? Look here, Taylor, if I did n't know you, I 'd take you for a truck. Pick up your feet, open your mouths, and move, move, move! Oh!" and he would drop his head in despair. "And to think that I 've got to do something with these things in two weeks--two weeks!" Then he would turn to them again with a sudden reaccession of eagerness. "Now, at it again, at it again! Hold that note, hold it! Now whirl, and on the left foot. Stop that music, stop it! Miss Coster, you 'll learn that step in about a thousand years, and I 've got nine hundred and ninety-nine years and fifty weeks less time than that to spare. Come here and try that step with me. Don't be afraid to move. Step like a chicken on a hot griddle!" And some blushing girl would come forward and go through the step alone before all the rest. Kitty contemplated the scene with a mind equally divided between fear and anger. What should she do if he should so speak to her? Like the others, no doubt, smile sheepishly and obey him. But she did not like to believe it. She felt that the independence which she had known from babyhood would assert itself, and that she would talk back to him, even as Hattie Sterling did. She felt scared and discouraged, but every now and then her friend smiled encouragingly upon	a long while." "Her frien', yes, an' his own inimy. You need n' pattern aftah dat gal, Kit. She ruint Joe, an' she 's aftah you now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here." "Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust." "You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a pen'tentiary sentence is de same as a divo'ce, an' if Be'y should live to git out, we 'd have to ma'y ag'in. I would n't min' dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up early and practising hard for her interview with the managing star of "Martin's Blackbirds." When she arrived at the theatre, Hattie Sterling met her with frank friendliness. "I 'm glad you came early, Kitty," she remarked, "for maybe you can get a chance to talk with Martin before he begins rehearsal and gets all worked up. He 'll be a little less like a bear then. But even if you don't see him before then, wait, and don't get scared if he tries to bluff you. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite." When Mr. Martin came in that morning, he had other ideas than that of seeing applicants for places. His show must begin in two weeks, and it was advertised to be larger and better than ever before, when really nothing at all had been done for it. The promise of this advertisement must be fulfilled. Mr. Martin was late, and was out of humour with every one else on account of it. He came in hurried, fierce, and important. "Mornin', Mr. Smith, mornin', Mrs. Jones. Ha, ladies and gentlemen, all here?" He shot every word out of his mouth as if the after-taste of it were unpleasant to him. He walked among the chorus like an angry king among his vassals, and his glance was a flash of insolent fire. From his head to his feet he was the very epitome of self-sufficient, brutal conceit. Kitty trembled as she noted the hush that fell on the people at his entrance. She felt like rushing out of the room. She could never face this terrible man. She trembled more as she found his eyes fixed upon her. "Who 's that?" he asked, disregarding her, as if she had been a stick or a stone. "Well, don't snap her head off. It 's a girl friend of mine that wants a place," said Hattie. She was the only one who would brave Martin. "Humph. Let her wait. I ain't got no time to hear any one now. Get yourselves in line, you	The Sport Of The Gods
said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.	No speaker	to trouble ourselves to move,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"She'll take the luggage upstairs	you outside." "There's no occasion to trouble ourselves to move,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"She'll take the luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to	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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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	a till, or a pocket, or a woman's reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly." Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy paleness and excessive terror. "Don't mind me, my dear," said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. "Ha! ha! it was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me." "I didn't take it," stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his chair; "it was all her doing; yer've got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have." "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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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	see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer." "Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!" exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon his ugly face. "There, that'll do: don't yer be too affectionate, in case I'm cross with yer," said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. "I should like to be the captain of some band, and have the whopping of 'em, and follering 'em about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good profit; and if we could only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you've got, especially as we don't very well know how to get rid of it ourselves." After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him. The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he made, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney. "A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year," said Fagin, rubbing his hands. "From the country, I see, sir?" "How do yer see that?" asked Noah Claypole. "We have not so much dust as that in London," replied Fagin, pointing from Noah's shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles. "Yer a sharp feller," said Noah. "Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!" "Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear," replied the Jew, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; "and that's the truth." Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger, a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner. "Good stuff that," observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips. "Dear!" said Fagin. "A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman's reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly." Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy paleness and excessive terror. "Don't mind me, my dear," said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. "Ha! ha! it was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me." "I didn't take it," stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his chair; "it was all her doing; yer've got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have." "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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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!" observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. "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	"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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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!	Oliver Twist
"Yes, I'm here."	Brenda	hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?"	means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel	coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver	Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had	possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think	to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?" "But look here, my dear fellow." "Good night. Thank you for the dinner. Good luck to the excavations." On his way out of the club he noticed that John Beaver of Bratt's Club was up for election. * * * * * "Who on earth would have expected the old boy to turn up like that?" asked Polly Cockpurse. "Now I understand why they keep going on in the papers about divorce law reform," said Veronica. "It's _too_ monstrous that he should be allowed to get away with it." "The mistake they made was in telling him first," said Souki. "It's so like Brenda to trust everyone," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. * * * * * "I do think Tony comes out of this pretty poorly," said Marjorie. "Oh, I don't know," said Allan. "I expect your ass of a brother put the thing wrong." CHAPTER V IN SEARCH OF A CITY [I] "any idea how many times round the deck	own and there will be no more coming to her. My mother's income is an allowance which I pay under my father's will. I shan't be able to give her anything. I am trying to raise everything I can for an expedition to one of the oases in the Libyan desert. This chap Beaver has got practically nothing and doesn't look like earning any. So you see--" "But, my dear Reggie, you know as well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England." "Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?" "Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?" "But look here, my dear fellow." "Good night. Thank you for the dinner. Good luck to the excavations." On his way out of the club he noticed that John Beaver of Bratt's Club was up for election. * * * * * "Who on earth would have expected the old boy to turn up like that?" asked Polly Cockpurse. "Now I understand why they keep going on in the papers about divorce law reform," said Veronica. "It's _too_ monstrous that he should be allowed to get away with it." "The mistake they made was in telling him first," said Souki. "It's so like Brenda to trust everyone," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. * * * * * "I do think Tony comes out of this pretty poorly," said Marjorie. "Oh, I don't know," said Allan. "I expect your ass of a brother put the thing wrong." CHAPTER V IN SEARCH OF A CITY [I] "any idea how many times round the deck make a mile?" "None, I'm afraid," said Tony. "But I should think you must have walked a great distance." "Twenty-two times. One soon gets out of sorts at sea if you're used to an active life. She's not much of a boat. Travel with this line often?" "Never before." "Ah. Thought you might have been in business in the islands. Not many tourists going out this time of year. Just the other way about. All coming home, if you see what I mean. Going far?" "Demerara." "Ah. Looking for minerals perhaps?" "No, to tell you the truth I am looking for a city." The genial passenger was surprised and then laughed. "Sounded just like you said you were looking for a city." "Yes." "That _was_ what you said?" "Yes." "I thought it sounded like that... well, so long. I must do another few rounds before dinner." He paced off up the deck, straddling slightly in order to keep his balance and occasionally putting out a hand to the rail for support. Regularly every three minutes for the last hour or so, this man had come by. At first Tony had looked up at his approach and then turned away again, out to sea. Presently the man had taken to nodding, then to saying "Hullo" or "Bit choppy" or "Here we are again" "; finally he had stopped and began a conversation. Tony went aft to break this rather embarrassing sequence. He descended the companion way which led to the lower deck. Here, in crates lashed to the side, was a variety of livestock--some stud bulls, a heavily blanketed racehorse, a couple of beagles, being exported to various West Indian islands. Tony threaded a way between them and the hatches to the stern, where he sat against a winch watching the horizon mount above the funnels, then fall until they stood out black against the darkening sky. The pitch was more sensible here than it had been amidships; the animals shifted restlessly in their cramped quarters; the beagles whined intermittently. A lascar took down from a line some washing which had been flapping there all day. The wash of the ship was quickly lost in the high waves. They were steaming westward down the Channel. As it grew to be night, lighthouses appeared flashing from the French coast. Presently a steward walked round the bright, upper deck striking chimes on a	everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England." "Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?" "Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?" "But look here, my dear fellow." "Good night. Thank you for the dinner. Good luck to the excavations." On his way out of the club he noticed that John Beaver of Bratt's Club was up for election. * * * * * "Who on earth would have expected the old boy to turn up like that?" asked Polly Cockpurse. "Now I understand why they keep going on in the papers about divorce law reform," said Veronica. "It's _too_ monstrous that he should be allowed to get away with it." "The mistake they made was in telling him first," said Souki. "It's so like Brenda to trust everyone," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. * * * * * "I do think Tony comes out of this pretty poorly," said Marjorie. "Oh, I don't know," said Allan. "I expect your ass of a brother put the thing wrong." CHAPTER V IN SEARCH OF A CITY [I] "any idea how many times round the deck make a mile?" "None, I'm afraid," said Tony. "But I should think you must have walked a great distance." "Twenty-two times. One soon gets out of sorts at sea if you're used to an active life. She's not much of a boat. Travel with this line often?" "Never before." "Ah. Thought you might have been in business in the islands. Not many tourists going out this time of year. Just the other way about. All coming home, if you see what I mean. Going far?" "Demerara." "Ah. Looking for minerals perhaps?" "No, to tell you the truth I am looking for a city." The genial passenger was surprised and then laughed. "Sounded just like you said you were looking for a city." "Yes." "That _was_ what you said?" "Yes." "I thought it sounded like that... well, so long. I must do another few rounds before dinner." He paced off up the deck, straddling slightly in	A Handful Of Dust
he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.	No speaker	first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking	other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by	March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw	and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony.	and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination--concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual. "Got the ring all right?" whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility. Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony. Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts's keen eyes would discover in the ritual of his divinity; then he suddenly recalled that he too had once thought such questions important. The things that had filled his days seemed now like a nursery parody of life, or like the wrangles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysical terms that nobody had ever understood. A stormy discussion as to whether the wedding presents should be "shown" had darkened the last hours before the wedding; and it seemed inconceivable to Archer that grown-up people should work themselves into a state of agitation over such trifles, and	Archer had gone through this formality as resignedly as through all the others which made of a nineteenth century New York wedding a rite that seemed to belong to the dawn of history. Everything was equally easy--or equally painful, as one chose to put it--in the path he was committed to tread, and he had obeyed the flurried injunctions of his best man as piously as other bridegrooms had obeyed his own, in the days when he had guided them through the same labyrinth. So far he was reasonably sure of having fulfilled all his obligations. The bridesmaids' eight bouquets of white lilac and lilies-of-the-valley had been sent in due time, as well as the gold and sapphire sleeve-links of the eight ushers and the best man's cat's-eye scarf-pin; Archer had sat up half the night trying to vary the wording of his thanks for the last batch of presents from men friends and ex-lady-loves; the fees for the Bishop and the Rector were safely in the pocket of his best man; his own luggage was already at Mrs. Manson Mingott's, where the wedding-breakfast was to take place, and so were the travelling clothes into which he was to change; and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination--concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual. "Got the ring all right?" whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility. Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony. Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts's keen eyes would discover in the ritual of his divinity; then he suddenly recalled that he too had once thought such questions important. The things that had filled his days seemed now like a nursery parody of life, or like the wrangles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysical terms that nobody had ever understood. A stormy discussion as to whether the wedding presents should be "shown" had darkened the last hours before the wedding; and it seemed inconceivable to Archer that grown-up people should work themselves into a state of agitation over such trifles, and that the matter should have been decided (in the negative) by Mrs. Welland's saying, with indignant tears: "I should as soon turn the reporters loose in my house." Yet there was a time when Archer had had definite and rather aggressive opinions on all such problems, and when everything concerning the manners and customs of his little tribe had seemed to him fraught with world-wide significance. "And all the while, I suppose," he thought, "real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them ..." "THERE THEY COME!" breathed the best man excitedly; but the bridegroom knew better. The cautious opening of the door of the church meant only that Mr. Brown the livery-stable keeper (gowned in black in his intermittent character of sexton) was taking a preliminary survey of the scene before marshalling his forces. The door was softly shut again; then after another interval it swung majestically open, and a murmur ran through the church: "The family!" Mrs. Welland came first, on the arm of her eldest son. Her large pink face was appropriately solemn, and her plum-coloured satin with pale blue side-panels, and blue ostrich plumes in a small satin bonnet, met with general approval; but	Rector so happy love May." Archer crumpled up the yellow sheet as if the gesture could annihilate the news it contained. Then he pulled out a small pocket-diary and turned over the pages with trembling fingers; but he did not find what he wanted, and cramming the telegram into his pocket he mounted the stairs. A light was shining through the door of the little hall-room which served Janey as a dressing-room and boudoir, and her brother rapped impatiently on the panel. The door opened, and his sister stood before him in her immemorial purple flannel dressing-gown, with her hair "on pins." Her face looked pale and apprehensive. "Newland! I hope there's no bad news in that telegram? I waited on purpose, in case--" (No item of his correspondence was safe from Janey.) He took no notice of her question. "Look here--what day is Easter this year?" She looked shocked at such unchristian ignorance. "Easter? Newland! Why, of course, the first week in April. Why?" "The first week?" He turned again to the pages of his diary, calculating rapidly under his breath. "The first week, did you say?" He threw back his head with a long laugh. "For mercy's sake what's the matter?" "Nothing's the matter, except that I'm going to be married in a month." Janey fell upon his neck and pressed him to her purple flannel breast. "Oh Newland, how wonderful! I'm so glad! But, dearest, why do you keep on laughing? Do hush, or you'll wake Mamma." Book II XIX. The day was fresh, with a lively spring wind full of dust. All the old ladies in both families had got out their faded sables and yellowing ermines, and the smell of camphor from the front pews almost smothered the faint spring scent of the lilies banking the altar. Newland Archer, at a signal from the sexton, had come out of the vestry and placed himself with his best man on the chancel step of Grace Church. The signal meant that the brougham bearing the bride and her father was in sight; but there was sure to be a considerable interval of adjustment and consultation in the lobby, where the bridesmaids were already hovering like a cluster of Easter blossoms. During this unavoidable lapse of time the bridegroom, in proof of his eagerness, was expected to expose himself alone to the gaze of the assembled company; and Archer had gone through this formality as resignedly as through all the others which made of a nineteenth century New York wedding a rite that seemed to belong to the dawn of history. Everything was equally easy--or equally painful, as one chose to put it--in the path he was committed to tread, and he had obeyed the flurried injunctions of his best man as piously as other bridegrooms had obeyed his own, in the days when he had guided them through the same labyrinth. So far he was reasonably sure of having fulfilled all his obligations. The bridesmaids' eight bouquets of white lilac and lilies-of-the-valley had been sent in due time, as well as the gold and sapphire sleeve-links of the eight ushers and the best man's cat's-eye scarf-pin; Archer had sat up half the night trying to vary the wording of his thanks for the last batch of presents from men friends and ex-lady-loves; the fees for the Bishop and the Rector were safely in the pocket of his best man; his own luggage was already at Mrs. Manson Mingott's, where the wedding-breakfast was to take place, and so were the travelling clothes into which he was to change; and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination--concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual. "Got the ring all right?" whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility. Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony. Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts's keen eyes would discover in the ritual of his divinity; then he suddenly recalled that he too had once thought such questions important. The things that had filled his days seemed now like a nursery parody of life, or like the wrangles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysical terms that nobody had ever understood. A stormy discussion as to whether the wedding presents should be "shown" had darkened the last hours before the wedding; and it seemed inconceivable to Archer that grown-up people should work themselves into a state of agitation over such trifles, and that the matter should have been decided (in the negative) by Mrs. Welland's saying, with indignant tears: "I should as soon turn the reporters loose in my house." Yet there was a time when Archer had had definite and rather aggressive opinions on all such problems, and when everything concerning the manners and customs of his little tribe had seemed to him fraught with world-wide significance. "And all the while, I suppose," he thought, "real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them ..." "THERE THEY COME!" breathed the best man excitedly; but the bridegroom knew better. The cautious opening of the door of the church meant only that Mr. Brown the livery-stable keeper (gowned in black in his intermittent character of sexton) was taking a preliminary survey of the scene before marshalling his forces. The door was softly shut again; then after another interval it swung majestically open, and a murmur ran through the church: "The family!" Mrs. Welland came first, on the arm of her eldest son. Her large pink face was appropriately solemn, and her plum-coloured satin with pale blue side-panels, and blue ostrich plumes in a small satin bonnet, met with general approval; but before she had settled herself with a stately rustle in the pew opposite Mrs. Archer's the spectators were craning their necks to see who was coming after her. Wild rumours had been abroad the day before to the effect that Mrs. Manson Mingott, in spite of her physical disabilities, had resolved on being present at the ceremony; and the idea was so much in keeping with her sporting character that bets ran high at the clubs as to her being able to walk up the nave and squeeze into a seat. It was known that she had insisted on sending her own carpenter to look into the possibility of taking down the end panel of the front pew, and to measure the space between the seat and the front; but the result had been discouraging, and for one anxious day her family had watched her dallying with the plan of being wheeled up the nave in her enormous Bath chair and sitting enthroned in it at the foot of the chancel. The idea of this monstrous exposure of her person was so painful to her relations that they could have covered with gold the ingenious person who suddenly discovered that the chair was too wide to pass between the iron uprights of the awning which extended from the church door to the curbstone. The idea of doing away with this awning, and revealing the bride to the mob of dressmakers and newspaper reporters who stood outside fighting to get near the joints of the canvas, exceeded even old Catherine's courage, though for a moment she had weighed the possibility. "Why, they might take a photograph of my child AND PUT IT IN THE PAPERS!" Mrs. Welland exclaimed when her mother's last plan was hinted to her; and from this unthinkable indecency the clan recoiled with a collective shudder. The ancestress had had to give in; but her concession was bought only by the promise that the wedding-breakfast should take place under her roof, though (as the Washington Square connection said) with the Wellands' house in easy reach it was hard to have to make a special price with Brown to drive one to the other end of nowhere. Though all these transactions had been widely reported by the Jacksons a sporting minority still clung to the belief that old Catherine would appear in church, and there was a distinct lowering	for the Bishop and the Rector were safely in the pocket of his best man; his own luggage was already at Mrs. Manson Mingott's, where the wedding-breakfast was to take place, and so were the travelling clothes into which he was to change; and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination--concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual. "Got the ring all right?" whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility. Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony. Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts's keen eyes would discover in the ritual of his divinity; then he suddenly recalled that he too had once thought such questions important. The things that had filled his days seemed now like a nursery parody of life, or like the wrangles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysical terms that nobody had ever understood. A stormy discussion as to whether the wedding presents should be "shown" had darkened the last hours before the wedding; and it seemed inconceivable to Archer that grown-up people should work themselves into a state of agitation over such trifles, and that the matter should have been decided (in the negative) by Mrs. Welland's saying, with indignant tears: "I should as soon turn the reporters loose in my house." Yet there was a time when Archer had had definite and rather aggressive opinions on all such problems, and when everything concerning the manners and customs of his little tribe had seemed to him fraught with world-wide significance. "And all the while, I suppose," he thought, "real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them ..." "THERE THEY COME!" breathed the best man excitedly; but	The Age Of Innocence
whispered Don.	No speaker	"Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and	understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something	great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick!	joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even	caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to	a grip, that had he dared to struggle to free himself, it would not have been possible to drag the fettered arm away. "Jem! Help!" was on his lips, but he uttered no cry, only breathlessly listened to a deep panting from the outer side of the _pah_. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. AFTER SUSPENSE. What would happen? A powerful savage had hold of him firmly, had caught him just as he was about to escape; and the next thing would be that he would feel a spear driven through the opening between the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face. "I've found the post, Mas' Don!" he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await Jem's coming. Ngati was more intelligent than Don had expected, for directly after he felt two great warm hands placed under to support his bare feet. These were raised and lowered a little; and, seizing the opportunity, he let himself sink down, till Ngati placed his feet upon two broad shoulders, and then Don felt himself seized by the hips, and lifted to the ground. As this went on Don could feel the post he had climbed vibrating, and though he could not see, he could tell that Jem had mounted to the top. "Where are you?" whispered Jem. "Look out! Ngati will help you." Jem grasped the situation, and the chief caught his feet, lowering him slowly, when all at once something seemed to spring out of the darkness, knocking Don right over, and seizing Ngati. That it was one of the guards there could be no doubt, for the man raised the alarm, and held on to the prisoner he had made, Jem going down awkwardly in turn. He and Don could have fled at once, but they could not leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally	Don placed his lips to his ear. "Whereabouts was it?" "Somewhere 'bout here. You try one way, and I'll try the other," whispered Jem; and then Don gripped his arm, and they stood listening, for a faint rustling sound seemed to come from outside. The noise was not repeated; but for quite half an hour they remained listening, till, gaining courage from the silence--the Maori guard only speaking from time to time, and then in a low, drowsy voice--Don began to follow Jem's suggestion, feeling post after post, and sometimes passing his arm through. But every one of the stout pales he touched was smooth and unclimbable without some help; and thinking that perhaps he had missed the place, he began to move back in the darkness, straining his ears the while to catch any sound made by his companion. But all was perfectly still, and every pale he touched was smooth and regular, set, too, so close to the next that there was not the slightest chance of even a child creeping through. All at once there was a rustling sound on his left. "Jem has found it," he thought; and he pressed forward toward where he had parted from Jem, passing one hand along the pales, the other extended so as to touch his companion as soon as they were near. The rustling sound again close at hand; but he dare not speak, only creep on in the dense blackness, straining his eyes to see; and his ears to catch his companion's breath. "Ah!" Don uttered a sigh of satisfaction, for it was painful to be alone at such a time, and he had at last touched the strong sturdy arm which was slightly withdrawn, and then the hand gripped him firmly. Don remained motionless, listening for the danger which must be threatening, or else Jem would have spoken; but at last the silence became so irksome that the prisoner raised his left hand to grasp Jem's wrist. But it was not Jem's wrist. It was bigger and stouter; and quick as thought Don ran his hand along the arm to force back the holder of his arm, when to his horror, he found that the limb had been thrust through one of the openings of the fence, and he was a prisoner to some fierce chief who had suspected the design to escape, held in so strong a grip, that had he dared to struggle to free himself, it would not have been possible to drag the fettered arm away. "Jem! Help!" was on his lips, but he uttered no cry, only breathlessly listened to a deep panting from the outer side of the _pah_. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. AFTER SUSPENSE. What would happen? A powerful savage had hold of him firmly, had caught him just as he was about to escape; and the next thing would be that he would feel a spear driven through the opening between the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face. "I've found the post, Mas' Don!" he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await Jem's coming. Ngati was more intelligent than Don had expected, for directly after he felt two great warm hands placed under to support his bare feet. These were raised and lowered a little; and, seizing the opportunity, he let himself sink down, till Ngati placed his feet upon two broad shoulders, and then Don felt himself seized by the hips, and lifted to the ground. As this went on Don could feel the post he had climbed vibrating, and though he could not see, he could tell that Jem had mounted to the top. "Where are you?" whispered Jem. "Look out! Ngati will help you." Jem grasped the situation, and the chief caught his feet, lowering him slowly, when all at once something seemed to spring out of the darkness, knocking Don right over, and seizing Ngati. That it was one of the guards there could be no doubt, for the man raised the alarm, and held on to the prisoner he had made, Jem going down awkwardly in turn. He and Don could have fled at once, but they could not leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally to feel his way to Ngati's help, no easy task in the darkness when two men are struggling. At last he was successful, and got a grip of one of the combatants' throat; but a hoarse, "No, pakeha!" told him of his mistake. He rectified it directly, getting his arm round the neck of the guard, tightening his grasp, and with such good effect, that Ngati wrenched himself free, and directly after Don heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!" "Here!" whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet, shouts below, in the _pah_, and close at hand. Ngati seized Don's hand, and after stooping down, thrust a spear into it. Then, uttering a grunt, he placed another spear in Jem's hand, the spoils of their fallen enemy, and leaving him for a moment, he felt along the fence for his own weapon. He spoke no more, but by means of action made Don understand that he would go first, holding his spear at the trail, he grasping one end, Don the other. Jem was to do likewise, and thus linked together they would not be separated. All this took time, and during the brief moments that elapsed it was evident that the whole tribe was alarmed, and coming up to the _pah_. "All right, Mas' Don! I understand. It's follow my leader, and old `my pakeha' to lead." Ngati did not hesitate a moment, but went rapidly down the steep descent, straight for the river, apparently right for where some of the yelling tribe were advancing. All at once the New Zealand chief stopped short, turned quickly, and pressed his hands firmly on Don's shoulder; for voices were heard just in front, and so near, that the lad feared that they must be seen. But he grasped the chief's idea, and lay flat down, Jem following his example; and almost as they crouched to the ground, a group of the enemy ran up so close, that one of them caught his foot against Jem, and fell headlong. Fortunately Jem was too much startled to move, and, muttering angrily, the man sprang up, not--as Don expected--to let drive with a spear at his companion, but attributing his fall to some stone, or the trunk of a tree, he ran on after his companions. Then Ngati rose, uttered a few words, whose import they grasped, and	wet face. "I've found the post, Mas' Don!" he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await	Don Lavington
said Cecil.	No speaker	profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of	Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an	It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't	over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have	Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said	was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?" "I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one	clear and gentle; after it--as the horrid phrase went--she had been exactly the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock; at his words she had turned and stood between him and the light with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her unashamed, feeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things that really mattered were unshaken. So now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled the step; he must write her a long account. Glancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy's chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw "Dear Mrs. Vyse," followed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his knee. Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs. Maple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch's letter. He did not want to read that letter--his temptations never lay in that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy--" "He is only a boy," he reflected. "I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?" The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?" "I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad." Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall." "It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones. Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the	fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy--" "He is only a boy," he reflected. "I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?" The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs."	A Room With A View
rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;	No speaker	"so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home	ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a	before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its	a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said	the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that	no sediment!" Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go. "You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "It blows, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, "enough to cut one's ears off." The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled. Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was	never," said Mr. Bumble, "see anything like the pitch it's got to. The day afore yesterday, a man you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it to you a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. My heart!' says the ungrateful villain, what's the use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!' Very good,' says our overseer, taking 'em away again, you won't get anything else here.' Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. Oh no, you won't,' says our overseer." "Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?" interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!" "It beats anything I could have believed," observed the matron emphatically. "But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come." "Mrs. Corney," said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, "out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then they get tired of coming." "Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Corney. "Well, that is a good one, too!" "Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am," returned Mr. Bumble, "that's the great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however," said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, "these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!" Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go. "You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "It blows, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, "enough to cut one's ears off." The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled. Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped. Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea. "Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matron's face; "are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" "Dear me!" exclaimed the matron, "what a very curious question from a single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?" The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron. "Mr. Bumble!" cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so great, that she had quite lost her voice, "Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!" Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round the matron's waist. As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded who was there. It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity. "If you please, mistress," said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly: putting her head in at the door, "Old Sally is a-going fast." "Well, what's that to me?" angrily demanded the matron. "I can't keep her alive, can I?" "No, no, mistress," replied the old woman, "nobody can; she's far beyond the reach of help. I've seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; and I know when death's a-coming, well enough. But she's troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her, and that's not often, for she is dying very hard, she says she has got something to tell, which you must	up his coat-collar, "enough to cut one's ears off." The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled. Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped. Now, if the matron had moved her	Oliver Twist
said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.	No speaker	the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in,"	heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the	together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such	from anybody. It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished. Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off.	"He" (none of them called the murderer by his old name) "He can't have made away with himself. What do you think?" said Chitling. Toby shook his head. "If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he's got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so easy." This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody. It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished. Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes. He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall as close as it would go and ground it against it and sat down. Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it	and the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes's dog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be seen. "What's the meaning of this?" said Toby when they had returned. "He can't be coming here. I I hope not." "If he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog," said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. "Here! Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint." "He's drunk it all up, every drop," said Chitling after watching the dog some time in silence. "Covered with mud lame half blind he must have come a long way." "Where can he have come from!" exclaimed Toby. "He's been to the other kens of course, and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he's been many a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!" "He" (none of them called the murderer by his old name) "He can't have made away with himself. What do you think?" said Chitling. Toby shook his head. "If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he's got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so easy." This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody. It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished. Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes. He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall as close as it would go and ground it against it and sat down. Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to have heard its tones before. "How came that dog here?" he asked. "Alone. Three hours ago." "To-night's paper says that Fagin's took. Is it true, or a lie?" "True." They were silent again. "Damn you all!" said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. "Have you nothing to say to me?" There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke. "You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, "do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?" "You may stop here, if you think it safe," returned the person addressed, after some hesitation. Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it: and said, "Is it the body is it buried?" They shook their heads. "Why isn't it!" he retorted with the same glance behind him. "Wot do they keep such ugly things above the ground for? Who's that knocking?" Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there was nothing to fear;	this afternoon. Charley and I made our lucky up the wash-us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, head downwards; but his legs were so precious long that they stuck out at the top, and so they took him too." "And Bet?" "Poor Bet! She went to see the Body, to speak to who it was," replied Chitling, his countenance falling more and more, "and went off mad, screaming and raving, and beating her head against the boards; so they put a strait-weskut on her and took her to the hospital and there she is." "Wot's come of young Bates?" demanded Kags. "He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he'll be here soon," replied Chitling. "There's nowhere else to go to now, for the people at the Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the ken I went up there and see it with my own eyes is filled with traps." "This is a smash," observed Toby, biting his lips. "There's more than one will go with this." "The sessions are on," said Kags: "if they get the inquest over, and Bolter turns King's evidence: as of course he will, from what he's said already: they can prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, and get the trial on on Friday, and he'll swing in six days from this, by G !" "You should have heard the people groan," said Chitling; "the officers fought like devils, or they'd have torn him away. He was down once, but they made a ring round him, and fought their way along. You should have seen how he looked about him, all muddy and bleeding, and clung to them as if they were his dearest friends. I can see 'em now, not able to stand upright with the pressing of the mob, and draggin him along amongst 'em; I can see the people jumping up, one behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at him; I can see the blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries with which the women worked themselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore they'd tear his heart out!" The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears, and with his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro, like one distracted. While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes's dog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be seen. "What's the meaning of this?" said Toby when they had returned. "He can't be coming here. I I hope not." "If he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog," said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. "Here! Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint." "He's drunk it all up, every drop," said Chitling after watching the dog some time in silence. "Covered with mud lame half blind he must have come a long way." "Where can he have come from!" exclaimed Toby. "He's been to the other kens of course, and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he's been many a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!" "He" (none of them called the murderer by his old name) "He can't have made away with himself. What do you think?" said Chitling. Toby shook his head. "If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he's got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so easy." This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody. It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished. Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes. He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall as close as it would go and ground it against it and sat down. Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to have heard its tones before. "How came that dog here?" he asked. "Alone. Three hours ago." "To-night's paper says that Fagin's took. Is it true, or a lie?" "True." They were silent again. "Damn you all!" said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. "Have you nothing to say to me?" There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke. "You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, "do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?" "You may stop here, if you think it safe," returned the person addressed, after some hesitation. Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it: and said, "Is it the body is it buried?" They shook their heads. "Why isn't it!" he retorted with the same glance behind him. "Wot do they keep such ugly things above the ground for? Who's that knocking?" Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there was nothing to fear; and directly came back with Charley Bates behind him. Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the boy entered the room he encountered his figure. "Toby," said the boy falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes towards him, "why didn't you tell me this, downstairs?" There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the three, that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly he nodded, and made as though he would shake hands with him. "Let me go into some other room," said the boy, retreating still farther. "Charley!" said Sikes, stepping forward. "Don't you don't you know me?" "Don't come nearer me," answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer's face. "You monster!" The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes's eyes sunk gradually to the ground. "Witness you three," cried the boy shaking his clenched fist, and becoming more and more excited as he spoke. "Witness you three I'm not afraid of him if they come here after him, I'll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once. He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here I'll give him up. I'd give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there's the pluck of a man among you three, you'll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!" Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him heavily to the ground. The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer's breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his might. The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps endless they seemed in number crossing the nearest wooden bridge.	one behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at him; I can see the blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries with which the women worked themselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore they'd tear his heart out!" The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears, and with his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro, like one distracted. While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes's dog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be seen. "What's the meaning of this?" said Toby when they had returned. "He can't be coming here. I I hope not." "If he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog," said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. "Here! Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint." "He's drunk it all up, every drop," said Chitling after watching the dog some time in silence. "Covered with mud lame half blind he must have come a long way." "Where can he have come from!" exclaimed Toby. "He's been to the other kens of course, and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he's been many a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!" "He" (none of them called the murderer by his old name) "He can't have made away with himself. What do you think?" said Chitling. Toby shook his head. "If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he's got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so easy." This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody. It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished. Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes. He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall as close as it would go and ground it against it and sat down. Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to have heard its tones before. "How came that dog here?" he asked. "Alone. Three hours ago." "To-night's paper says that Fagin's took. Is it true, or a lie?" "True." They were silent again. "Damn you all!" said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. "Have you nothing to say to me?" There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke. "You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, "do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?" "You may stop here, if you think it safe," returned the person addressed, after some hesitation. Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it: and said, "Is it the body is it buried?" They shook their heads. "Why isn't it!" he	Oliver Twist
"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."	Basil Hallward	the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I	asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I	and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous	at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a	you are not in the least like him." "You don t understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke s we tell each other the most absurd stories with	if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him." "You don t understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke s we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose." "Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and	comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake. "It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place." "I don t think I shall send it anywhere," he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. "No, I won t send it anywhere." Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion." "I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can t exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it." Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed. "Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same." "Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn t know you were so vain; and I really can t see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him." "You don t understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke s we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose." "Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago." "What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "You know quite well." "I do not, Harry." "Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you won t exhibit Dorian Gray s picture. I want the real reason." "I told you the real reason." "No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish." "Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. "I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter; "and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it." Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward s heart beating, and wondered what was coming. "The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon s. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not	away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion." "I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can t exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it." Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed. "Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same." "Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn t know you were so vain; and I really can t see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him." "You don t understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke s we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."	Nance	throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr.	"It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice.	seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the	nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what	Sikes. "Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?" "I hear you," replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. "What fancy have you got in your head now?" "Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. "All the better for you, you have." "Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill," said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "No!" cried Mr. Sikes. "Why not?" "Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room,	hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes's question. "Not long gone seven," said the girl. "How do you feel to-night, Bill?" "As weak as water," replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. "Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow." Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her. "Whining are you?" said Sikes. "Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?" "I hear you," replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. "What fancy have you got in your head now?" "Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. "All the better for you, you have." "Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill," said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "No!" cried Mr. Sikes. "Why not?" "Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley," said Mr. Dawkins; "and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the	sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without, and the rushing of the water. They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light step for a gentleman of his figure: looking nervously about him for hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was softly unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet and darkness outside. They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he returned to the chamber he had just quitted. CHAPTER XXXIX. INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in the last chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as therein narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquiry what time of night it was. The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his old quarters: being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very limited size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman's having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration. The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes's question. "Not long gone seven," said the girl. "How do you feel to-night, Bill?" "As weak as water," replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. "Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow." Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her. "Whining are you?" said Sikes. "Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?" "I hear you," replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. "What fancy have you got in your head now?" "Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. "All the better for you, you have." "Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill," said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "No!" cried Mr. Sikes. "Why not?" "Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley," said Mr. Dawkins; "and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness, oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!" Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation. "Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, Bill; you'll do now." "Do!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?" "Only hear him, boys!" said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things." "The things is well enough in their way," observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; "but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog. Drive him down, Charley!" "I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd make his fortun' on	of night it was. The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his old quarters: being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very limited size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman's having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration. The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes's question. "Not long gone seven," said the girl. "How do you feel to-night, Bill?" "As weak as water," replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. "Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow." Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her. "Whining are you?" said Sikes. "Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?" "I hear you," replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. "What fancy have you got in your head now?" "Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. "All the better for you, you have." "Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill," said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "No!" cried Mr. Sikes. "Why not?" "Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley," said Mr. Dawkins; "and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the	Oliver Twist
Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.	No speaker	Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when	a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I	thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front	says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles "like a lobster." "I hope," said Mr. Henfrey, "that it s no intrusion." "None whatever," said the stranger. "Though, I understand," he said turning to Mrs. Hall, "that this room is really to be mine for my own private use." "I thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said.	hold the serviette before. The shadows, she fancied, had tricked her. "Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?" she said, recovering from the momentary shock. "Look at the clock?" he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and speaking over his hand, and then, getting more fully awake, "certainly." Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself. Then came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by this bandaged person. He was, he says, "taken aback." "Good afternoon," said the stranger, regarding him as Mr. Henfrey says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles "like a lobster." "I hope," said Mr. Henfrey, "that it s no intrusion." "None whatever," said the stranger. "Though, I understand," he said turning to Mrs. Hall, "that this room is really to be mine for my own private use." "I thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said. She was certain, with a marked coldness. "I should explain," he added, "what I was really too cold and fatigued to do before, that I am an experimental investigator." "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Hall, much impressed. "And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances." "Very useful things indeed they are, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And I m very naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries." "Of course, sir." "My reason for coming to Iping," he proceeded, with a certain deliberation of manner, "was ... a desire for solitude. I do not wish to be disturbed in my work. In addition	door and rapped and entered. Her visitor, she saw as she opened the door, was seated in the armchair before the fire, dozing it would seem, with his bandaged head drooping on one side. The only light in the room was the red glow from the fire which lit his eyes like adverse railway signals, but left his downcast face in darkness and the scanty vestiges of the day that came in through the open door. Everything was ruddy, shadowy, and indistinct to her, the more so since she had just been lighting the bar lamp, and her eyes were dazzled. But for a second it seemed to her that the man she looked at had an enormous mouth wide open a vast and incredible mouth that swallowed the whole of the lower portion of his face. It was the sensation of a moment: the white-bound head, the monstrous goggle eyes, and this huge yawn below it. Then he stirred, started up in his chair, put up his hand. She opened the door wide, so that the room was lighter, and she saw him more clearly, with the muffler held up to his face just as she had seen him hold the serviette before. The shadows, she fancied, had tricked her. "Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?" she said, recovering from the momentary shock. "Look at the clock?" he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and speaking over his hand, and then, getting more fully awake, "certainly." Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself. Then came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by this bandaged person. He was, he says, "taken aback." "Good afternoon," said the stranger, regarding him as Mr. Henfrey says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles "like a lobster." "I hope," said Mr. Henfrey, "that it s no intrusion." "None whatever," said the stranger. "Though, I understand," he said turning to Mrs. Hall, "that this room is really to be mine for my own private use." "I thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said. She was certain, with a marked coldness. "I should explain," he added, "what I was really too cold and fatigued to do before, that I am an experimental investigator." "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Hall, much impressed. "And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances." "Very useful things indeed they are, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And I m very naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries." "Of course, sir." "My reason for coming to Iping," he proceeded, with a certain deliberation of manner, "was ... a desire for solitude. I do not wish to be disturbed in my work. In addition to my work, an accident" "I thought as much," said Mrs. Hall to herself. "necessitates a certain retirement. My eyes are sometimes so weak and painful that I have to shut myself up in the dark for hours together. Lock myself up. Sometimes now and then. Not at present, certainly. At such times the slightest disturbance, the entry of a stranger into the room, is a source of excruciating annoyance to me it is well these things should be understood." "Certainly, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And if I might make so bold as to ask" "That I think, is all," said the stranger, with that quietly irresistible air of finality he could assume at will. Mrs. Hall reserved her question and sympathy for a better occasion. After Mrs. Hall had left the room, he remained standing in front of the fire, glaring, so Mr. Henfrey puts it, at the clock-mending. Mr. Henfrey not only took off the hands of the clock, and the face, but extracted the works; and he tried to work in as slow and quiet and unassuming a manner as possible. He worked with the lamp close to him, and the green shade threw a brilliant light	kill in his mouth. "_Was_ he?" he said. "He was, sir. And no laughing matter to them as had the doing for him, as I had my sister being took up with her little ones so much. There was bandages to do, sir, and bandages to undo. So that if I may make so bold as to say it, sir" "Will you get me some matches?" said the visitor, quite abruptly. "My pipe is out." Mrs. Hall was pulled up suddenly. It was certainly rude of him, after telling him all she had done. She gasped at him for a moment, and remembered the two sovereigns. She went for the matches. "Thanks," he said concisely, as she put them down, and turned his shoulder upon her and stared out of the window again. It was altogether too discouraging. Evidently he was sensitive on the topic of operations and bandages. She did not "make so bold as to say," however, after all. But his snubbing way had irritated her, and Millie had a hot time of it that afternoon. The visitor remained in the parlour until four o clock, without giving the ghost of an excuse for an intrusion. For the most part he was quite still during that time; it would seem he sat in the growing darkness smoking in the firelight perhaps dozing. Once or twice a curious listener might have heard him at the coals, and for the space of five minutes he was audible pacing the room. He seemed to be talking to himself. Then the armchair creaked as he sat down again. CHAPTER II. MR. TEDDY HENFREY S FIRST IMPRESSIONS At four o clock, when it was fairly dark and Mrs. Hall was screwing up her courage to go in and ask her visitor if he would take some tea, Teddy Henfrey, the clock-jobber, came into the bar. "My sakes! Mrs. Hall," said he, "but this is terrible weather for thin boots!" The snow outside was falling faster. Mrs. Hall agreed, and then noticed he had his bag with him. "Now you re here, Mr. Teddy," said she, "I d be glad if you d give th old clock in the parlour a bit of a look. Tis going, and it strikes well and hearty; but the hour-hand won t do nuthin but point at six." And leading the way, she went across to the parlour door and rapped and entered. Her visitor, she saw as she opened the door, was seated in the armchair before the fire, dozing it would seem, with his bandaged head drooping on one side. The only light in the room was the red glow from the fire which lit his eyes like adverse railway signals, but left his downcast face in darkness and the scanty vestiges of the day that came in through the open door. Everything was ruddy, shadowy, and indistinct to her, the more so since she had just been lighting the bar lamp, and her eyes were dazzled. But for a second it seemed to her that the man she looked at had an enormous mouth wide open a vast and incredible mouth that swallowed the whole of the lower portion of his face. It was the sensation of a moment: the white-bound head, the monstrous goggle eyes, and this huge yawn below it. Then he stirred, started up in his chair, put up his hand. She opened the door wide, so that the room was lighter, and she saw him more clearly, with the muffler held up to his face just as she had seen him hold the serviette before. The shadows, she fancied, had tricked her. "Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?" she said, recovering from the momentary shock. "Look at the clock?" he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and speaking over his hand, and then, getting more fully awake, "certainly." Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself. Then came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by this bandaged person. He was, he says, "taken aback." "Good afternoon," said the stranger, regarding him as Mr. Henfrey says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles "like a lobster." "I hope," said Mr. Henfrey, "that it s no intrusion." "None whatever," said the stranger. "Though, I understand," he said turning to Mrs. Hall, "that this room is really to be mine for my own private use." "I thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said. She was certain, with a marked coldness. "I should explain," he added, "what I was really too cold and fatigued to do before, that I am an experimental investigator." "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Hall, much impressed. "And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances." "Very useful things indeed they are, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And I m very naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries." "Of course, sir." "My reason for coming to Iping," he proceeded, with a certain deliberation of manner, "was ... a desire for solitude. I do not wish to be disturbed in my work. In addition to my work, an accident" "I thought as much," said Mrs. Hall to herself. "necessitates a certain retirement. My eyes are sometimes so weak and painful that I have to shut myself up in the dark for hours together. Lock myself up. Sometimes now and then. Not at present, certainly. At such times the slightest disturbance, the entry of a stranger into the room, is a source of excruciating annoyance to me it is well these things should be understood." "Certainly, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And if I might make so bold as to ask" "That I think, is all," said the stranger, with that quietly irresistible air of finality he could assume at will. Mrs. Hall reserved her question and sympathy for a better occasion. After Mrs. Hall had left the room, he remained standing in front of the fire, glaring, so Mr. Henfrey puts it, at the clock-mending. Mr. Henfrey not only took off the hands of the clock, and the face, but extracted the works; and he tried to work in as slow and quiet and unassuming a manner as possible. He worked with the lamp close to him, and the green shade threw a brilliant light upon his hands, and upon the frame and wheels, and left the rest of the room shadowy. When he looked up, coloured patches swam in his eyes. Being constitutionally of a curious nature, he had removed the works a quite unnecessary proceeding with the idea of delaying his departure and perhaps falling into conversation with the stranger. But the stranger stood there, perfectly silent and still. So still, it got on Henfrey s nerves. He felt alone in the room and looked up, and there, grey and dim, was the bandaged head and huge blue lenses staring fixedly, with a mist of green spots drifting in front of them. It was so uncanny to Henfrey that for a minute they remained staring blankly at one another. Then Henfrey looked down again. Very uncomfortable position! One would like to say something. Should he remark that the weather was very cold for the time of year? He looked up as if to take aim with that introductory shot. "The weather" he began. "Why don t you finish and go?" said the rigid figure, evidently in a state of painfully suppressed rage. "All you ve got to do is to fix the hour-hand on its axle. You re simply humbugging" "Certainly, sir one minute more. I overlooked" and Mr. Henfrey finished and went. But he went feeling excessively annoyed. "Damn it!" said Mr. Henfrey to himself, trudging down the village through the thawing snow; "a man must do a clock at times, surely." And again, "Can t a man look at you? Ugly!" And yet again, "Seemingly not. If the police was wanting you you couldn t be more wropped and bandaged." At Gleeson s corner he saw Hall, who had recently married the stranger s hostess at the "Coach and Horses," and who now drove the Iping conveyance, when occasional people required it, to Sidderbridge Junction, coming towards him on his return from that place. Hall had evidently been "stopping a bit" at Sidderbridge, to judge by his driving. "Ow do, Teddy?" he said, passing. "You got a rum un up home!" said Teddy. Hall very sociably pulled up. "What s that?" he asked. "Rum-looking customer stopping at the Coach and Horses," said Teddy. "My sakes!" And he proceeded to give Hall a vivid description of his grotesque guest. "Looks a bit like a disguise, don t it? I d like to	noticed he had his bag with him. "Now you re here, Mr. Teddy," said she, "I d be glad if you d give th old clock in the parlour a bit of a look. Tis going, and it strikes well and hearty; but the hour-hand won t do nuthin but point at six." And leading the way, she went across to the parlour door and rapped and entered. Her visitor, she saw as she opened the door, was seated in the armchair before the fire, dozing it would seem, with his bandaged head drooping on one side. The only light in the room was the red glow from the fire which lit his eyes like adverse railway signals, but left his downcast face in darkness and the scanty vestiges of the day that came in through the open door. Everything was ruddy, shadowy, and indistinct to her, the more so since she had just been lighting the bar lamp, and her eyes were dazzled. But for a second it seemed to her that the man she looked at had an enormous mouth wide open a vast and incredible mouth that swallowed the whole of the lower portion of his face. It was the sensation of a moment: the white-bound head, the monstrous goggle eyes, and this huge yawn below it. Then he stirred, started up in his chair, put up his hand. She opened the door wide, so that the room was lighter, and she saw him more clearly, with the muffler held up to his face just as she had seen him hold the serviette before. The shadows, she fancied, had tricked her. "Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?" she said, recovering from the momentary shock. "Look at the clock?" he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and speaking over his hand, and then, getting more fully awake, "certainly." Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself. Then came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by this bandaged person. He was, he says, "taken aback." "Good afternoon," said the stranger, regarding him as Mr. Henfrey says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles "like a lobster." "I hope," said Mr. Henfrey, "that it s no intrusion." "None whatever," said the stranger. "Though, I understand," he said turning to Mrs. Hall, "that this room is really to be mine for my own private use." "I thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said. She was certain, with a marked coldness. "I should explain," he added, "what I was really too cold and fatigued to do before, that I am an experimental investigator." "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Hall, much impressed. "And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances." "Very useful things indeed they are, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And I m very naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries." "Of course, sir." "My reason for coming to Iping," he proceeded, with a certain deliberation of manner, "was ... a desire for solitude. I do not wish to be disturbed in my work. In addition to my work, an accident" "I thought as much," said Mrs. Hall to herself. "necessitates a certain retirement. My eyes are sometimes so weak and painful that I have to shut myself up in the dark for hours together. Lock myself up. Sometimes now and then. Not at present, certainly. At such times the slightest disturbance, the entry of a stranger into the room, is a source of excruciating annoyance to me it is well these things should be understood." "Certainly, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And if I might make so bold as to ask" "That I think, is all," said the stranger, with that quietly irresistible air of finality he could assume at will. Mrs. Hall reserved her question and sympathy for a better occasion. After Mrs. Hall had left the room, he remained standing in front of the fire, glaring, so Mr. Henfrey puts it, at the clock-mending. Mr. Henfrey not only took off the hands of the clock, and the face, but extracted the works; and he tried to work in as slow and quiet and unassuming a manner as possible. He worked with the lamp close to him, and the green shade threw a brilliant light upon his hands, and upon the frame and wheels, and left the rest of the room shadowy. When he looked	The Invisible Man
"Let me walk over with you,"	Robert Lebrun	I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said;	yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the	in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet	not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both." His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained her to him. "I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream.	you never came near me!" She was still caressing his cheek. "I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had been willing." She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips. "You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both." His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained her to him. "I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you will wait for me, Robert?" "Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me," he pleaded. "Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me." "I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here." She	it?" she asked. Her face glowed with soft lights. "Why? Because you were not free; you were L once Pontellier's wife. I couldn't help loving you if you were ten times his wife; but so long as I went away from you and kept away I could help telling you so." She put her free hand up to his shoulder, and then against his cheek, rubbing it softly. He kissed her again. His face was warm and flushed. "There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and longing for you." "But not writing to me," she interrupted. "Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my senses. I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming my wife." "Your wife!" "Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared." "Then you must have forgotten that I was L once Pontellier's wife." "Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men who had set their wives free, we have heard of such things." "Yes, we have heard of such things." "I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here" "When you got here you never came near me!" She was still caressing his cheek. "I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had been willing." She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips. "You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both." His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained her to him. "I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you will wait for me, Robert?" "Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me," he pleaded. "Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me." "I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here." She buried her face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice, together with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had deprived him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her. XXXVII Edna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up a mixture himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tiny glass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be a comfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle's sister, who had always been with her at such trying times, had not been able to come up from the plantation, and Ad le had been inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier so kindly promised to come to her. The nurse had been with them at night for the past week, as she lived a great distance away. And Dr. Mandelet had been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking for him any moment. Edna hastened upstairs by a private stairway that led from the rear of the store to the apartments above. The children were all sleeping in a back room. Madame Ratignolle was in the salon, whither she had strayed in her suffering	your chop; it's so biting and crisp. Then there's the advantage of being able to smoke with your coffee out here. Now, in the city aren't you going to smoke?" "After a while," he said, laying a cigar on the table. "Who gave it to you?" she laughed. "I bought it. I suppose I'm getting reckless; I bought a whole box." She was determined not to be personal again and make him uncomfortable. The cat made friends with him, and climbed into his lap when he smoked his cigar. He stroked her silky fur, and talked a little about her. He looked at Edna's book, which he had read; and he told her the end, to save her the trouble of wading through it, he said. Again he accompanied her back to her home; and it was after dusk when they reached the little "pigeon-house." She did not ask him to remain, which he was grateful for, as it permitted him to stay without the discomfort of blundering through an excuse which he had no intention of considering. He helped her to light the lamp; then she went into her room to take off her hat and to bathe her face and hands. When she came back Robert was not examining the pictures and magazines as before; he sat off in the shadow, leaning his head back on the chair as if in a reverie. Edna lingered a moment beside the table, arranging the books there. Then she went across the room to where he sat. She bent over the arm of his chair and called his name. "Robert," she said, "are you asleep?" "No," he answered, looking up at her. She leaned over and kissed him a soft, cool, delicate kiss, whose voluptuous sting penetrated his whole being then she moved away from him. He followed, and took her in his arms, just holding her close to him. She put her hand up to his face and pressed his cheek against her own. The action was full of love and tenderness. He sought her lips again. Then he drew her down upon the sofa beside him and held her hand in both of his. "Now you know," he said, "now you know what I have been fighting against since last summer at Grand Isle; what drove me away and drove me back again." "Why have you been fighting against it?" she asked. Her face glowed with soft lights. "Why? Because you were not free; you were L once Pontellier's wife. I couldn't help loving you if you were ten times his wife; but so long as I went away from you and kept away I could help telling you so." She put her free hand up to his shoulder, and then against his cheek, rubbing it softly. He kissed her again. His face was warm and flushed. "There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and longing for you." "But not writing to me," she interrupted. "Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my senses. I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming my wife." "Your wife!" "Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared." "Then you must have forgotten that I was L once Pontellier's wife." "Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men who had set their wives free, we have heard of such things." "Yes, we have heard of such things." "I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here" "When you got here you never came near me!" She was still caressing his cheek. "I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had been willing." She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips. "You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both." His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained her to him. "I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you will wait for me, Robert?" "Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me," he pleaded. "Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me." "I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here." She buried her face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice, together with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had deprived him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her. XXXVII Edna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up a mixture himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tiny glass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be a comfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle's sister, who had always been with her at such trying times, had not been able to come up from the plantation, and Ad le had been inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier so kindly promised to come to her. The nurse had been with them at night for the past week, as she lived a great distance away. And Dr. Mandelet had been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking for him any moment. Edna hastened upstairs by a private stairway that led from the rear of the store to the apartments above. The children were all sleeping in a back room. Madame Ratignolle was in the salon, whither she had strayed in her suffering impatience. She sat on the sofa, clad in an ample white _peignoir_, holding a handkerchief tight in her hand with a nervous clutch. Her face was drawn and pinched, her sweet blue eyes haggard and unnatural. All her beautiful hair had been drawn back and plaited. It lay in a long braid on the sofa pillow, coiled like a golden serpent. The nurse, a comfortable looking Griffe woman in white apron and cap, was urging her to return to her bedroom. "There is no use, there is no use," she said at once to Edna. "We must get rid of Mandelet; he is getting too old and careless. He said he would be here at half-past seven; now it must be eight. See what time it is, Jos phine." The woman was possessed of a cheerful nature, and refused to take any situation too seriously, especially a situation with which she was so familiar. She urged Madame to have courage and patience. But Madame only set her teeth hard into her under lip, and Edna saw the sweat gather in beads on her white forehead. After a moment or two she uttered a profound sigh and wiped her face with the handkerchief rolled in a ball. She appeared exhausted. The nurse gave her a fresh handkerchief, sprinkled with cologne water. "This is too much!" she cried. "Mandelet ought to be killed! Where is Alphonse? Is it possible I am to be abandoned like this neglected by every one?" "Neglected, indeed!" exclaimed the nurse. Wasn't she there? And here was Mrs. Pontellier leaving, no doubt, a pleasant evening at home to devote to her? And wasn't Monsieur Ratignolle coming that very instant through the hall? And Jos phine was quite sure she had heard Doctor Mandelet's coup . Yes, there it was, down at the door. Ad le consented to go back to her room. She sat on the edge of a little low couch next to her bed. Doctor Mandelet paid no attention to Madame Ratignolle's upbraidings. He was accustomed to them at such times, and was too well convinced of her loyalty to doubt it. He was glad to see Edna, and wanted her to go with him into the salon and entertain him. But Madame Ratignolle would not consent that Edna should leave her for an instant. Between agonizing moments, she chatted a little, and said it took	she interrupted. "Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my senses. I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming my wife." "Your wife!" "Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared." "Then you must have forgotten that I was L once Pontellier's wife." "Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men who had set their wives free, we have heard of such things." "Yes, we have heard of such things." "I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here" "When you got here you never came near me!" She was still caressing his cheek. "I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had been willing." She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips. "You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both." His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained her to him. "I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you will wait for me, Robert?" "Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me," he pleaded. "Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me." "I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here." She buried her face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice, together with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had deprived him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her. XXXVII Edna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up a mixture himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tiny glass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be a comfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle's sister, who had always been with her at such trying times, had not been able to come up from the plantation, and Ad le had been inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier so kindly promised to come to her. The nurse had been with them at night for the past week, as she lived a great distance away. And Dr. Mandelet had been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking for him any moment. Edna hastened	The Awakening
I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.	No speaker	somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get	not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best	my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It	glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full	girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while	with the agility of a cat and barred my way. “Now, not a step do you go, my fine young blood, until you pick up every jolly lemon and put them away tidily, or I’ll tell the missus on you as sure as eggs.” It dawned on me that he had mistaken me for one of the servant-girls. That wasn’t bad fun. I determined not to undeceive but to have a lark with him. I summed him up as conceited, but not with the disgusting conceit with which some are afflicted, or perhaps blessed. It was rather an air of I-have-always-got-what-I-desire-and-believe,-if-people-fail-it-is-all- their-own -fault, which surrounded him. “If you please, sir,” I said humbly, “I’ve gathered them all up, will you let me go now.” “Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.” “Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!” “Go on, I won’t poison you. Come now, I’ll make you.” “Oh, the missus might catch me.” “No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.” “Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for I feared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: “Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland. I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs. “Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other. He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man—rich and important. I was a chit—an insignificant nonentity—yet, despite his sex, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus I laughed. I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he	boots with which to walk in the water, and was garbed in a most dilapidated old dress, which I had borrowed from one of the servants for the purpose. A pair of gloves made of basil, and a big hat, much torn in struggling through the undergrowth, completed my make-up. My hair was most unbecomingly screwed up, the short ends sticking out like a hurrah’s nest. It was late in the day when, returning from my ramble, I was met on the doorstep by aunt Helen. “While you are in that trim, I wish you would pluck some lemons for me. I’m sure there is no danger of you ruining your turn-out. A sketch of you would make a good item for the _Bulletin_,” she said. I went readily to do her bidding, and fetching a ladder with rungs about two feet six apart, placed it against a lemon-tree at the back of the house, and climbed up. Holding a number of lemons in my skirt, I was making a most ungraceful descent, when I heard an unknown footstep approaching towards my back. People came to Caddagat at all hours of the day, so I was not in the least disconcerted. Only a tramp, an agent, or a hawker, I bet, I thought, as I reached my big boot down for another rung of the ladder without turning my head to see whom it might be. A pair of strong brown hands encircled my waist, I was tossed up a foot or so and then deposited lightly on the ground, a masculine voice saying, “You’re a mighty well-shaped young filly—‘a waist rather small, but a quarter superb’.” “How dare anyone speak to me like that,” I thought, as I faced about to see who was parodying Gordon. There stood a man I had never before set eyes on, smiling mischievously at me. He was a young man—a very young man, a bushman tremendously tall and big and sunburnt, with an open pleasant face and chestnut moustache—not at all an awe-inspiring fellow, in spite of his unusual, though well-proportioned and carried, height. I knew it must be Harold Beecham, of Five-Bob Downs, as I had heard he stood six feet three and a half in his socks. I hurriedly let down my dress, the lemons rolling in a dozen directions, and turned to flee, but that well-formed figure bounded before me with the agility of a cat and barred my way. “Now, not a step do you go, my fine young blood, until you pick up every jolly lemon and put them away tidily, or I’ll tell the missus on you as sure as eggs.” It dawned on me that he had mistaken me for one of the servant-girls. That wasn’t bad fun. I determined not to undeceive but to have a lark with him. I summed him up as conceited, but not with the disgusting conceit with which some are afflicted, or perhaps blessed. It was rather an air of I-have-always-got-what-I-desire-and-believe,-if-people-fail-it-is-all- their-own -fault, which surrounded him. “If you please, sir,” I said humbly, “I’ve gathered them all up, will you let me go now.” “Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.” “Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!” “Go on, I won’t poison you. Come now, I’ll make you.” “Oh, the missus might catch me.” “No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.” “Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for I feared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: “Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland. I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs. “Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other. He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man—rich and important. I was a chit—an insignificant nonentity—yet, despite his sex, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus I laughed. I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above all things. He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying: “Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’ll like. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples you brought me!” He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he who did not know how to manage me, and not I that couldn’t manage him. “’Pon my honour, Miss Melvyn, I had no idea it was you, when I said—” Here he boggled completely, which had the effect of reviving my laughter. “You had no right to be dressed like that—deceiving a fellow. It wasn’t fair.” “That’s the best of it. It shows what a larrikin Don Juan sort of character you are. You can’t deceive me now if you pretend to be a virtuous well-behaved member of society.” “That is the first time I’ve ever meddled with any of the kitchen fry, and, by Jove, it will be the last!” he said energetically. “I’ve got myself into a pretty mess.” “What nonsense you talk,” I replied. “If you say another word about it, I’ll write a full account of it and paste it in my scrapbook. But if you don’t worry about it, neither will I. You said nothing very uncomplimentary; in fact, I was quite flattered.” I was perched on the high end of a couch, and he was leaning with big careless ease on the piano. Had grannie seen me, I would have been lectured about unladylike behaviour. “What is your uncle at today?” he inquired. “He’s not at anything. He went to Gool-Gool yesterday on the jury. Court finishes up today, and he is going to bring the judge home tonight. That’s why I am dressed so carefully,” I answered. “Good gracious! I never thought of court this time as I wasn’t called on the jury, and for a wonder hadn’t so much as a case against a Chinaman. I was going to stay tonight, but can’t if his worship is going to dine here.” “Why? You’re surely not afraid of Judge Fossilt? He’s a very simple old customer.” “Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!” and he glanced down his great figure at his riding	will you let me go now.” “Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.” “Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!” “Go on, I won’t poison you. Come now, I’ll make you.” “Oh, the missus might catch me.” “No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.” “Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for I feared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: “Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland. I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs. “Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other. He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man—rich and important. I was a chit—an insignificant nonentity—yet, despite his sex, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus I laughed. I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above all things. He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying: “Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’ll like. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples you brought me!” He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he who did not know how to manage me, and not I that couldn’t manage him. “’Pon my honour, Miss Melvyn, I had no idea it was you, when I said—” Here he boggled completely, which	My Brilliant Career
“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”	Harold Beecham	spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we	eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that	until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will	to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly;	feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and	and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold—from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he was good in my sight, but lacking in that power over me which would make me desirous of being the mother of his children. As for explaining my feelings to him—ha! He would laughingly call them one of my funny little whims. With his orthodox, practical, plain, commonsense views of these things, he would not understand me. What was there to understand? Only that I was queer and different from other women. But he was waiting for me to speak. I had put my hand to the plough and could not turn back. I could not use the word wife, but I put my hand in his, looked at him steadily, and said— “Harold. I meant what I said last Sunday. If you want me—if I am of any use to you—I will marry	great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold—from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he was good in my sight, but lacking in that power over me which would make me desirous of being the mother of his children. As for explaining my feelings to him—ha! He would laughingly call them one of my funny little whims. With his orthodox, practical, plain, commonsense views of these things, he would not understand me. What was there to understand? Only that I was queer and different from other women. But he was waiting for me to speak. I had put my hand to the plough and could not turn back. I could not use the word wife, but I put my hand in his, looked at him steadily, and said— “Harold. I meant what I said last Sunday. If you want me—if I am of any use to you—I will marry you when I attain my majority.” He was satisfied. He bade us good-bye early that afternoon, as he intended departing from Five-Bob when the morrow was young, and had two or three little matters to attend to previous to his departure. I accompanied him a little way, he walking and leading his horse. We parted beneath the old willow-tree. “Good-bye, Harold. I mean all I have said.” I turned my face upwards; he stooped and kissed me once—only once—one light, gentle, diffident kiss. He looked at me long and intently without saying a word, then mounted his horse, raised his hat, and rode away. I watched him depart along the white dusty road, looking like a long snake in the glare of the summer sun, until it and he who travelled thereon disappeared among the messmate- and hickory-trees forming the horizon. I stood gazing at the hills in the distance on which the blue dreaming mists of evening were gathering, until tears stole down my cheeks. I was not given to weeping. What brought them? I hardly knew. It was not because Harold was leaving, though I would miss him much. Was it because I was disappointed in love? I persuaded myself that. I loved Harold as much as I could ever love anyone, and I could not forsake him now that he needed me. But, but, but, I did not want to marry, and I wished that Harold had asked anything of me but that, because—because, I don’t know what, and presently felt ashamed for being such a selfish coward that I grudged to make a little sacrifice of my own inclinations to help a brother through life. “I used to feel sure that Harry meant to come up to the scratch, but I suppose he’s had plenty to keep him going lately without bothering his head about a youngster in short frocks and a pigtail,” remarked uncle Jay-Jay that night. “Well, Sybylla, poor Harry has gone: we will all—even you included—miss him very much, I am sure. I used to think that he cared for you. It may be that he has not spoken to us on account of his financial failure, and it may be that I made a mistake,” said aunt Helen when she was bidding me good night. I held my peace. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Boast Not Thyself of Tomorrow We felt the loss of the	to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold—from the	My Brilliant Career
She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.	No speaker	how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as	I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide	Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the	him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding." "Oh, I see... well, that's that, isn't it?" "It certainly looks as though it were." Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition." "Yes," said Brenda, "I ought to have thought of that. Well, good-bye." And she went out alone into the sunshine. * * * * * All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious	frank, Lady Brenda, I fear that _was_ his intention. I raised this particular point shortly before his departure. He was quite resolved on the subject." "But is he _allowed_ to do that? I mean, haven't I got any rights under the marriage settlement or anything?" "Nothing which you can claim without application to the courts. You _might_ find solicitors who would advise you to take action. I cannot say that I should be one of them. Mr Last would oppose any such order to the utmost and I think that, in the present circumstances, the courts would undoubtedly find for him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding." "Oh, I see... well, that's that, isn't it?" "It certainly looks as though it were." Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition." "Yes," said Brenda, "I ought to have thought of that. Well, good-bye." And she went out alone into the sunshine. * * * * * All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious of the passage of time. He slept a little; once or twice he left his hammock and found himself weak and dizzy. He tried to eat some of the food which Dr Messinger had left out for him, but without success. It was not until it grew dark that he realized the day was over. He lit the lantern and began to collect wood for the fire, but the sticks kept slipping from his fingers and each time that he stooped he felt giddy, so that after a few fretful efforts he left them where they had fallen and returned	Amazon and the water closed over his bald head. * * * * * Brenda went to see the family solicitors. "Mr Graceful," she said, "I've got to have some more money." Mr Graceful looked at her sadly. "I should have thought that was really a question for your bank manager. I understand that your securities are in your own name and that the dividends are paid into your account." "They never seem to pay dividends nowadays. Besides, it's really very difficult to live on so little." "No doubt. No doubt." "Mr Last left you with power of attorney, didn't he?" "With strictly limited powers, Lady Brenda. I am instructed to pay the wage bill at Hetton and all expenses connected with the upkeep of the estate--he is putting in new bathrooms and restoring some decorations in the morning-room which had been demolished. But I am afraid that I have no authority to draw on Mr Last's account for other charges." "But, Mr Graceful, I am sure he didn't intend to stay abroad so long. He can't possibly have meant to leave me stranded like this, can he?... Can he?" Mr Graceful paused and fidgeted a little. "To be quite frank, Lady Brenda, I fear that _was_ his intention. I raised this particular point shortly before his departure. He was quite resolved on the subject." "But is he _allowed_ to do that? I mean, haven't I got any rights under the marriage settlement or anything?" "Nothing which you can claim without application to the courts. You _might_ find solicitors who would advise you to take action. I cannot say that I should be one of them. Mr Last would oppose any such order to the utmost and I think that, in the present circumstances, the courts would undoubtedly find for him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding." "Oh, I see... well, that's that, isn't it?" "It certainly looks as though it were." Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition." "Yes," said Brenda, "I ought to have thought of that. Well, good-bye." And she went out alone into the sunshine. * * * * * All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious of the passage of time. He slept a little; once or twice he left his hammock and found himself weak and dizzy. He tried to eat some of the food which Dr Messinger had left out for him, but without success. It was not until it grew dark that he realized the day was over. He lit the lantern and began to collect wood for the fire, but the sticks kept slipping from his fingers and each time that he stooped he felt giddy, so that after a few fretful efforts he left them where they had fallen and returned to his hammock. And lying there, wrapped in his blanket, he began to cry. After some hours of darkness the lamp began to burn low; he leant painfully over, and shook it. It needed refilling. He knew where the oil was kept, crept to it, supporting himself first on the hammock rope and then on a pile of boxes. He found the keg, pulled out the bung and began to refill the lamp, but his hand trembled and the oil spilled over the ground, then his head began to swim again so that he shut his eyes; the keg rolled over on its side and emptied itself with slow gurglings. When he realized what had happened, he began to cry again. He lay down in his hammock and in a few minutes the light sank, flickered and went out. There was a reek of kerosene on his hands and on the sodden earth. He lay awake in the darkness crying. Just before dawn the fever returned and a constant company of phantoms perplexed his senses. * * * * * Brenda awoke in the lowest possible spirits. The evening before she had spent alone at a cinema. Afterwards she felt	paddled on with regular, leisurely strokes; he was travelling fast. For a mile's stretch the river narrowed and the water raced so that all he had to do was to trail the blade of the paddle as a rudder; then the walls of forest on either side of him fell back and he drifted into a great open lake, where he had to work heavily to keep in motion; all the time he watched keenly to right and left for the column of smoke, the thatched dome, the sly brown figure in the undergrowth, the drinking cattle, that would disclose the village he sought. But there was no sign. In the open water he took up his field-glasses and studied the whole wooded margin. But there was no sign. Later the river narrowed once more and the canoe shot forward in the swift current. Ahead of him the surface was broken by rapids; the smooth water seethed and eddied; a low monotone warned him that beyond the rapids was a fall. Dr Messinger began to steer for the bank. The current was running strongly and he exerted his full strength; ten yards from the beginning of the rapids his bows ran in under the bank. There was a dense growth of thorn here, overhanging the river, the canoe slid under them and bit into the beach; very cautiously Dr Messinger knelt forward in his place and stretched up to a bough over his head. It was at that moment he came to grief; the stern swung out downstream and as he snatched at the paddle the craft was swept broadside into the troubled waters; there it adopted an eccentric course, spinning and tumbling to the falls. Dr Messinger was tipped into the water; it was quite shallow in places and he caught at the rocks but they were worn smooth as ivory and afforded no hold for his hands; he rolled over twice, found himself in deep water and attempted to swim, found himself among boulders again and attempted to grapple with them. Then he reached the falls. They were unspectacular as falls go in that country--a drop of ten feet or less--but they were enough for Dr Messinger. At their foot the foam subsided into a great pool, almost still, and strewn with blossom from the forest trees that encircled it. Dr Messinger's hat floated very slowly towards the Amazon and the water closed over his bald head. * * * * * Brenda went to see the family solicitors. "Mr Graceful," she said, "I've got to have some more money." Mr Graceful looked at her sadly. "I should have thought that was really a question for your bank manager. I understand that your securities are in your own name and that the dividends are paid into your account." "They never seem to pay dividends nowadays. Besides, it's really very difficult to live on so little." "No doubt. No doubt." "Mr Last left you with power of attorney, didn't he?" "With strictly limited powers, Lady Brenda. I am instructed to pay the wage bill at Hetton and all expenses connected with the upkeep of the estate--he is putting in new bathrooms and restoring some decorations in the morning-room which had been demolished. But I am afraid that I have no authority to draw on Mr Last's account for other charges." "But, Mr Graceful, I am sure he didn't intend to stay abroad so long. He can't possibly have meant to leave me stranded like this, can he?... Can he?" Mr Graceful paused and fidgeted a little. "To be quite frank, Lady Brenda, I fear that _was_ his intention. I raised this particular point shortly before his departure. He was quite resolved on the subject." "But is he _allowed_ to do that? I mean, haven't I got any rights under the marriage settlement or anything?" "Nothing which you can claim without application to the courts. You _might_ find solicitors who would advise you to take action. I cannot say that I should be one of them. Mr Last would oppose any such order to the utmost and I think that, in the present circumstances, the courts would undoubtedly find for him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding." "Oh, I see... well, that's that, isn't it?" "It certainly looks as though it were." Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition." "Yes," said Brenda, "I ought to have thought of that. Well, good-bye." And she went out alone into the sunshine. * * * * * All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious of the passage of time. He slept a little; once or twice he left his hammock and found himself weak and dizzy. He tried to eat some of the food which Dr Messinger had left out for him, but without success. It was not until it grew dark that he realized the day was over. He lit the lantern and began to collect wood for the fire, but the sticks kept slipping from his fingers and each time that he stooped he felt giddy, so that after a few fretful efforts he left them where they had fallen and returned to his hammock. And lying there, wrapped in his blanket, he began to cry. After some hours of darkness the lamp began to burn low; he leant painfully over, and shook it. It needed refilling. He knew where the oil was kept, crept to it, supporting himself first on the hammock rope and then on a pile of boxes. He found the keg, pulled out the bung and began to refill the lamp, but his hand trembled and the oil spilled over the ground, then his head began to swim again so that he shut his eyes; the keg rolled over on its side and emptied itself with slow gurglings. When he realized what had happened, he began to cry again. He lay down in his hammock and in a few minutes the light sank, flickered and went out. There was a reek of kerosene on his hands and on the sodden earth. He lay awake in the darkness crying. Just before dawn the fever returned and a constant company of phantoms perplexed his senses. * * * * * Brenda awoke in the lowest possible spirits. The evening before she had spent alone at a cinema. Afterwards she felt hungry--she had had no proper meal that day--but she had not the strength to go alone into any of the supper restaurants. She bought a meat pie at a coffee stall and took it home. It looked delicious but when she came to eat she found that she had lost her appetite. The remains of that pie lay on the dressing table when she awoke. It was August and she was entirely alone. Beaver was that day landing in New York. (He had cabled her from mid-ocean that the crossing was excellent.) It was for her the last of Beaver. Parliament was over and Jock Grant-Menzies was paying his annual visit to his elder brother in Scotland; Marjorie and Allan at the last moment had made Lord Monomark's yacht and were drifting luxuriously down the coast of Spain attending bull-fights (they had even asked her to look after Djinn). Her mother was at the chalet Lady Anchorage always lent her on the Lake of Geneva. Polly was everywhere. Even Jenny Abdul Akbar was cruising in the Baltic. Brenda opened her newspaper and read an article by a young man who said that the London Season was a thing of the past; that everyone was too busy in those days to keep up the pre-war routine; that there were no more formal dances but a constant round of more modest entertaining; that August in London was the gayest time of all (he rewrote this annually in slightly different words). It did not console Brenda to read that article. For weeks past she had attempted to keep a fair mind towards Tony and his treatment of her; now at last she broke down, and turning over buried her face in the pillow in an agony of resentment and self-pity. * * * * * In Brazil she wore a ragged cotton gown of the same pattern as Rosa's. It was not unbecoming. Tony watched her for some time before he spoke. "Why are you dressed like that?" "Don't you like it? I got it from Polly." "It looks so dirty." "Well, Polly travels about a lot. You must get up now to go to the County Council meeting." "But it isn't Wednesday?" "No, but time is different in Brazil; surely you remember?" "I can't get as far as Pigstanton. I've got to stay here until Messinger comes back. I'm ill. He told	almost still, and strewn with blossom from the forest trees that encircled it. Dr Messinger's hat floated very slowly towards the Amazon and the water closed over his bald head. * * * * * Brenda went to see the family solicitors. "Mr Graceful," she said, "I've got to have some more money." Mr Graceful looked at her sadly. "I should have thought that was really a question for your bank manager. I understand that your securities are in your own name and that the dividends are paid into your account." "They never seem to pay dividends nowadays. Besides, it's really very difficult to live on so little." "No doubt. No doubt." "Mr Last left you with power of attorney, didn't he?" "With strictly limited powers, Lady Brenda. I am instructed to pay the wage bill at Hetton and all expenses connected with the upkeep of the estate--he is putting in new bathrooms and restoring some decorations in the morning-room which had been demolished. But I am afraid that I have no authority to draw on Mr Last's account for other charges." "But, Mr Graceful, I am sure he didn't intend to stay abroad so long. He can't possibly have meant to leave me stranded like this, can he?... Can he?" Mr Graceful paused and fidgeted a little. "To be quite frank, Lady Brenda, I fear that _was_ his intention. I raised this particular point shortly before his departure. He was quite resolved on the subject." "But is he _allowed_ to do that? I mean, haven't I got any rights under the marriage settlement or anything?" "Nothing which you can claim without application to the courts. You _might_ find solicitors who would advise you to take action. I cannot say that I should be one of them. Mr Last would oppose any such order to the utmost and I think that, in the present circumstances, the courts would undoubtedly find for him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding." "Oh, I see... well, that's that, isn't it?" "It certainly looks as though it were." Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition." "Yes," said Brenda, "I ought to have thought of that. Well, good-bye." And she went out alone into the sunshine. * * * * * All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious of the passage of time. He slept a little; once or twice he left his hammock and found himself weak and dizzy. He tried to eat some of the food which Dr Messinger had left out for him, but without success. It was not until it grew dark that he realized the day was over. He lit the lantern and began to collect wood for the fire, but the sticks kept slipping from his fingers and each time that he stooped he felt giddy, so that after a few fretful efforts he left them where they had fallen and returned to his hammock. And lying there, wrapped in his blanket, he began to cry. After some hours of darkness the lamp began to burn low; he leant painfully over, and shook it. It needed refilling. He knew where the oil was kept, crept to it, supporting himself first on the hammock rope and then on a pile of boxes. He found the keg, pulled out the bung and began to refill the lamp, but his hand trembled and the oil spilled over the ground, then his head began to swim again so that he shut his eyes; the keg rolled over on its side and emptied itself with slow gurglings. When he realized what had happened, he began to cry again. He lay down in his hammock and in a few minutes the light sank, flickered and went out. There was a reek of kerosene on his hands and on the sodden earth. He lay awake in the darkness crying. Just before dawn the fever returned and a constant company of phantoms perplexed his senses. * * * * * Brenda awoke in the lowest possible spirits. The evening before she had spent alone at a cinema. Afterwards she felt hungry--she had had no proper meal that day--but she had not the strength to go alone into any of the supper restaurants. She bought a meat pie at a coffee stall and took it home. It looked delicious but when she came to eat she found that she had lost her appetite. The remains of that pie lay on the dressing table when she awoke. It was August and she was entirely alone. Beaver was that day landing in New York. (He had cabled her from mid-ocean that the crossing was excellent.) It was for her the last of Beaver. Parliament was over and Jock Grant-Menzies was paying his annual visit to his elder brother in Scotland; Marjorie and Allan at the last moment had made Lord Monomark's yacht and were drifting luxuriously down the coast of Spain attending bull-fights (they had even asked her to look after Djinn). Her mother was at the chalet Lady Anchorage always lent her on the Lake of Geneva. Polly was everywhere. Even Jenny Abdul Akbar was cruising in the Baltic. Brenda opened her newspaper and read an article by a young man who said that the London	A Handful Of Dust
retorted Bounderby;	No speaker	tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say,	would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you	you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him	man tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there's an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I'll give _you_ to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be summed up in	said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him with his legs wide apart, his hands deeper in his pockets, and his hair like a hayfield wherein his windy anger was boisterous. "You have said your say; I am going to say mine. I am a Coketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. I know the bricks of this town, and I know the works of this town, and I know the chimneys of this town, and I know the smoke of this town, and I know the Hands of this town. I know 'em all pretty well. They're real. When a man tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there's an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I'll give _you_ to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be summed up in this that your daughter don't properly know her husband's merits, and is not impressed with such a sense as would become her, by George! of the honour of his alliance. That's plain speaking, I hope." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "this is unreasonable." "Is it?" said Bounderby. "I am glad to hear you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, with his new lights, tells me that what I say is unreasonable, I am convinced at once it must be devilish sensible. With your permission I am going on. You know my origin; and you know that for a good many years	it to develop itself by tenderness and consideration it it would be the better for the happiness of all of us. Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, shading his face with his hand, "has always been my favourite child." The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned and swelled to such an extent on hearing these words, that he seemed to be, and probably was, on the brink of a fit. With his very ears a bright purple shot with crimson, he pent up his indignation, however, and said: "You'd like to keep her here for a time?" "I I had intended to recommend, my dear Bounderby, that you should allow Louisa to remain here on a visit, and be attended by Sissy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), who understands her, and in whom she trusts." "I gather from all this, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, standing up with his hands in his pockets, "that you are of opinion that there's what people call some incompatibility between Loo Bounderby and myself." "I fear there is at present a general incompatibility between Louisa, and and and almost all the relations in which I have placed her," was her father's sorrowful reply. "Now, look you here, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him with his legs wide apart, his hands deeper in his pockets, and his hair like a hayfield wherein his windy anger was boisterous. "You have said your say; I am going to say mine. I am a Coketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. I know the bricks of this town, and I know the works of this town, and I know the chimneys of this town, and I know the smoke of this town, and I know the Hands of this town. I know 'em all pretty well. They're real. When a man tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there's an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I'll give _you_ to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be summed up in this that your daughter don't properly know her husband's merits, and is not impressed with such a sense as would become her, by George! of the honour of his alliance. That's plain speaking, I hope." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "this is unreasonable." "Is it?" said Bounderby. "I am glad to hear you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, with his new lights, tells me that what I say is unreasonable, I am convinced at once it must be devilish sensible. With your permission I am going on. You know my origin; and you know that for a good many years of my life I didn't want a shoeing-horn, in consequence of not having a shoe. Yet you may believe or not, as you think proper, that there are ladies born ladies belonging to families Families! who next to worship the ground I walk on." He discharged this like a Rocket, at his father-in-law's head. "Whereas your daughter," proceeded Bounderby, "is far from being a born lady. That you know, yourself. Not that I care a pinch of candle-snuff about such things, for you are very well aware I don't; but that such is the fact, and you, Tom Gradgrind, can't change it. Why do I say this?" "Not, I fear," observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a low voice, "to spare me." "Hear me out," said Bounderby, "and refrain from cutting in till your turn comes round. I say this, because highly connected females have been astonished to see the way in which your daughter has conducted herself, and to witness her insensibility. They have wondered how I have suffered it. And I wonder myself now, and I won't suffer it." "Bounderby," returned Mr. Gradgrind, rising, "the less we say to-night the better, I think." "On the contrary, Tom Gradgrind, the more	I should feel sensible of your delicacy, and grateful for it, if you would spare me these references to Harthouse. I shall not associate him in our conversation with your intimacy and encouragement; pray do not persist in connecting him with mine." "I never mentioned his name!" said Bounderby. "Well, well!" returned Mr. Gradgrind, with a patient, even a submissive, air. And he sat for a little while pondering. "Bounderby, I see reason to doubt whether we have ever quite understood Louisa." "Who do you mean by We?" "Let me say I, then," he returned, in answer to the coarsely blurted question; "I doubt whether I have understood Louisa. I doubt whether I have been quite right in the manner of her education." "There you hit it," returned Bounderby. "There I agree with you. You have found it out at last, have you? Education! I'll tell you what education is To be tumbled out of doors, neck and crop, and put upon the shortest allowance of everything except blows. That's what _I_ call education." "I think your good sense will perceive," Mr. Gradgrind remonstrated in all humility, "that whatever the merits of such a system may be, it would be difficult of general application to girls." "I don't see it at all, sir," returned the obstinate Bounderby. "Well," sighed Mr. Gradgrind, "we will not enter into the question. I assure you I have no desire to be controversial. I seek to repair what is amiss, if I possibly can; and I hope you will assist me in a good spirit, Bounderby, for I have been very much distressed." "I don't understand you, yet," said Bounderby, with determined obstinacy, "and therefore I won't make any promises." "In the course of a few hours, my dear Bounderby," Mr. Gradgrind proceeded, in the same depressed and propitiatory manner, "I appear to myself to have become better informed as to Louisa's character, than in previous years. The enlightenment has been painfully forced upon me, and the discovery is not mine. I think there are Bounderby, you will be surprised to hear me say this I think there are qualities in Louisa, which which have been harshly neglected, and and a little perverted. And and I would suggest to you, that that if you would kindly meet me in a timely endeavour to leave her to her better nature for a while and to encourage it to develop itself by tenderness and consideration it it would be the better for the happiness of all of us. Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, shading his face with his hand, "has always been my favourite child." The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned and swelled to such an extent on hearing these words, that he seemed to be, and probably was, on the brink of a fit. With his very ears a bright purple shot with crimson, he pent up his indignation, however, and said: "You'd like to keep her here for a time?" "I I had intended to recommend, my dear Bounderby, that you should allow Louisa to remain here on a visit, and be attended by Sissy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), who understands her, and in whom she trusts." "I gather from all this, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, standing up with his hands in his pockets, "that you are of opinion that there's what people call some incompatibility between Loo Bounderby and myself." "I fear there is at present a general incompatibility between Louisa, and and and almost all the relations in which I have placed her," was her father's sorrowful reply. "Now, look you here, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him with his legs wide apart, his hands deeper in his pockets, and his hair like a hayfield wherein his windy anger was boisterous. "You have said your say; I am going to say mine. I am a Coketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. I know the bricks of this town, and I know the works of this town, and I know the chimneys of this town, and I know the smoke of this town, and I know the Hands of this town. I know 'em all pretty well. They're real. When a man tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there's an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I'll give _you_ to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be summed up in this that your daughter don't properly know her husband's merits, and is not impressed with such a sense as would become her, by George! of the honour of his alliance. That's plain speaking, I hope." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "this is unreasonable." "Is it?" said Bounderby. "I am glad to hear you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, with his new lights, tells me that what I say is unreasonable, I am convinced at once it must be devilish sensible. With your permission I am going on. You know my origin; and you know that for a good many years of my life I didn't want a shoeing-horn, in consequence of not having a shoe. Yet you may believe or not, as you think proper, that there are ladies born ladies belonging to families Families! who next to worship the ground I walk on." He discharged this like a Rocket, at his father-in-law's head. "Whereas your daughter," proceeded Bounderby, "is far from being a born lady. That you know, yourself. Not that I care a pinch of candle-snuff about such things, for you are very well aware I don't; but that such is the fact, and you, Tom Gradgrind, can't change it. Why do I say this?" "Not, I fear," observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a low voice, "to spare me." "Hear me out," said Bounderby, "and refrain from cutting in till your turn comes round. I say this, because highly connected females have been astonished to see the way in which your daughter has conducted herself, and to witness her insensibility. They have wondered how I have suffered it. And I wonder myself now, and I won't suffer it." "Bounderby," returned Mr. Gradgrind, rising, "the less we say to-night the better, I think." "On the contrary, Tom Gradgrind, the more we say to-night, the better, I think. That is," the consideration checked him, "till I have said all I mean to say, and then I don't care how soon we stop. I come to a question that may shorten the business. What do you mean by the proposal you made just now?" "What do I mean, Bounderby?" "By your visiting proposition," said Bounderby, with an inflexible jerk of the hayfield. "I mean that I hope you may be induced to arrange in a friendly manner, for allowing Louisa a period of repose and reflection here, which may tend to a gradual alteration for the better in many respects." "To a softening down of your ideas of the incompatibility?" said Bounderby. "If you put it in those terms." "What made you think of this?" said Bounderby. "I have already said, I fear Louisa has not been understood. Is it asking too much, Bounderby, that you, so far her elder, should aid in trying to set her right? You have accepted a great charge of her; for better for worse, for" Mr. Bounderby may have been annoyed by the repetition of his own words to Stephen Blackpool, but he cut the quotation short with an angry start. "Come!" said he, "I don't want to be told about that. I know what I took her for, as well as you do. Never you mind what I took her for; that's my look out." "I was merely going on to remark, Bounderby, that we may all be more or less in the wrong, not even excepting you; and that some yielding on your part, remembering the trust you have accepted, may not only be an act of true kindness, but perhaps a debt incurred towards Louisa." "I think differently," blustered Bounderby. "I am going to finish this business according to my own opinions. Now, I don't want to make a quarrel of it with you, Tom Gradgrind. To tell you the truth, I don't think it would be worthy of my reputation to quarrel on such a subject. As to your gentleman-friend, he may take himself off, wherever he likes best. If he falls in my way, I shall tell him my mind; if he don't fall in my way, I shan't, for it won't be worth my while to do it. As to your daughter, whom I made Loo Bounderby, and might have	to you, that that if you would kindly meet me in a timely endeavour to leave her to her better nature for a while and to encourage it to develop itself by tenderness and consideration it it would be the better for the happiness of all of us. Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, shading his face with his hand, "has always been my favourite child." The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned and swelled to such an extent on hearing these words, that he seemed to be, and probably was, on the brink of a fit. With his very ears a bright purple shot with crimson, he pent up his indignation, however, and said: "You'd like to keep her here for a time?" "I I had intended to recommend, my dear Bounderby, that you should allow Louisa to remain here on a visit, and be attended by Sissy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), who understands her, and in whom she trusts." "I gather from all this, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, standing up with his hands in his pockets, "that you are of opinion that there's what people call some incompatibility between Loo Bounderby and myself." "I fear there is at present a general incompatibility between Louisa, and and and almost all the relations in which I have placed her," was her father's sorrowful reply. "Now, look you here, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him with his legs wide apart, his hands deeper in his pockets, and his hair like a hayfield wherein his windy anger was boisterous. "You have said your say; I am going to say mine. I am a Coketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. I know the bricks of this town, and I know the works of this town, and I know the chimneys of this town, and I know the smoke of this town, and I know the Hands of this town. I know 'em all pretty well. They're real. When a man tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there's an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I'll give _you_ to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be summed up in this that your daughter don't properly know her husband's merits, and is not impressed with such a sense as would become her, by George! of the honour of his alliance. That's plain speaking, I hope." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "this is unreasonable." "Is it?" said Bounderby. "I am glad to hear you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, with his new lights, tells me that what I say is unreasonable, I am convinced at once it must be devilish sensible. With your permission I am going on. You know my origin; and you know that for a good many years of my life I didn't want a shoeing-horn, in consequence of not having a shoe. Yet you may believe or not, as you think proper, that there are ladies born ladies belonging to families Families! who next to worship the ground I walk on." He discharged this like a Rocket, at his father-in-law's head. "Whereas your daughter," proceeded Bounderby, "is far from being a born lady. That you know, yourself. Not that I care a pinch of candle-snuff about such things, for you are very well aware I don't; but that such is the fact, and you, Tom Gradgrind, can't change it. Why do I say this?" "Not, I fear," observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a low voice, "to spare me." "Hear me out," said Bounderby, "and refrain from cutting in till your turn comes round. I say this, because highly connected females have been astonished to see the way in which your daughter has conducted herself, and to witness her insensibility. They have wondered how I have suffered it. And I wonder myself now, and I won't suffer it." "Bounderby," returned Mr. Gradgrind, rising, "the less we say to-night the better, I think." "On the contrary, Tom Gradgrind, the more we say to-night, the better, I think. That is," the consideration checked him, "till I have said all I mean to say, and then I don't care how soon we stop. I come to a question that may shorten the business. What do you mean by the proposal you made just now?" "What do I mean, Bounderby?" "By your visiting proposition," said Bounderby, with an inflexible jerk of the hayfield. "I mean that I hope you may be induced to arrange in a friendly manner, for allowing Louisa a period of repose and reflection here, which may tend to a gradual alteration for the better in many respects." "To a softening down of your ideas of the incompatibility?" said Bounderby. "If you put it in those terms." "What made you think of this?" said Bounderby. "I have already said, I fear Louisa has not been understood. Is it asking too much, Bounderby, that you, so far her elder, should aid in trying to set her right? You have accepted a great charge of her; for better for worse, for" Mr. Bounderby may have been annoyed by the repetition of his own words to Stephen	Hard Times
"You were speaking,"	Mr. Frank Churchill	turned towards her to listen.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>said he, gravely. She recovered	by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>said he, gravely. She recovered her voice. "I was only	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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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.	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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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. "Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?" "If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.--Well, I declare--" They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even	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), "I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?" 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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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. "Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?" "If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.--Well, I declare--" They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have _her_ carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again. While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said, "Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?--Emma, I had not thought it possible." Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off. "Nay, how could I help saying what I did?--Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me." "I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--with what candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome." "Oh!" cried Emma, "I know there is not a better creature in the world: but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her." "They are blended," said he, "I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you	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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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. "Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?" "If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one of the ladies in the Irish	Emma
said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.	No speaker	are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference	said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully	which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences,	that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the	matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!"	mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly	serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the "Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and	so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off!	A Room With A View
said Jem laconically.	No speaker	"Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore	light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said	up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box	so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of	high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be	faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be fine," said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just	most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said Don. "See how vigorously they can row, and how energetic they are when they go through the war-dance." "Oh! Any stoopid could jump about and make faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be fine," said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm. "Just look at him, Jem." "Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at once. Look at the rum little beggar. Arn't he comic? Why, he arn't got no wings and no tail. Hi! Cocky, how did you get your beak bent that way? Look as if you'd had it caught in a gate. Have another?" Jem took up a large raspberry-like fruit that he had picked some time before, and held it out to the bird, which stopped short, and held its head down comically, looking first at Jem, and then at the berry. With a rapid twist it turned its head on the other side, and performed the same operation with the left eye. "Well, he is a rum un!" cried Jem, laughing. "Look! Mas' Don, look!" Don was watching the eccentric-looking little creature, which ran forward rapidly, and then paused. "Why, 'tarn't a wild bird at all!" cried Jem. "It's one of the `my pakeha' chap's cocks an' hens. Well, I ham blessed!" For rapid almost as thought, and before Jem could recover from his surprise, the bird had darted forward, seized the fruit, and was off a dozen yards before he had darted out his hand after it. "Too late, Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don, too late that time; but I mean to ketch that chap, just to show him he arn't so clever as he thinks. You sit still, and go on eating, and don't take no notice, and look out--look out." "Oh!" ejaculated Don. For at that moment one of the birds had come up behind him, and almost before he had heard Jem's warning cry, he was made aware of the bird's presence by a sharp dig of its beak in the hand holding a portion of his dinner, which was carried rapidly away. "Magpies is nothing to 'em," cried Jem. "But wait a bit, my fine fellows, and you shall see what you shall see. Pass that there basket, Mas' Don. Ah!	across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be fine," said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with	Don Lavington
M. Riviere replied.	No speaker	seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then	led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The	as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering	I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here." "You knew--?" "Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that	"if this is the line you took with the Countess Olenska?" M. Riviere reddened, but his eyes did not falter. "No, Monsieur: I accepted my mission in good faith. I really believed--for reasons I need not trouble you with--that it would be better for Madame Olenska to recover her situation, her fortune, the social consideration that her husband's standing gives her." "So I supposed: you could hardly have accepted such a mission otherwise." "I should not have accepted it." "Well, then--?" Archer paused again, and their eyes met in another protracted scrutiny. "Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here." "You knew--?" "Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent. "The change--what sort of a change?" "Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!" M. Riviere paused. "Tenez--the discovery, I suppose, of what I'd never thought of before: that she's an American. And that if you're an American of HER kind--of your kind--things that are accepted in certain other societies, or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and-take--become unthinkable, simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska's relations understood what these things were, their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own; but they seem to regard her husband's wish	not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted. Archer looked up and met his visitor's anxious gaze. "Don't you know, Monsieur--is it possible you don't know--that the family begin to doubt if they have the right to advise the Countess to refuse her husband's last proposals?" "The proposals you brought?" "The proposals I brought." It was on Archer's lips to exclaim that whatever he knew or did not know was no concern of M. Riviere's; but something in the humble and yet courageous tenacity of M. Riviere's gaze made him reject this conclusion, and he met the young man's question with another. "What is your object in speaking to me of this?" He had not to wait a moment for the answer. "To beg you, Monsieur--to beg you with all the force I'm capable of--not to let her go back.--Oh, don't let her!" M. Riviere exclaimed. Archer looked at him with increasing astonishment. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his distress or the strength of his determination: he had evidently resolved to let everything go by the board but the supreme need of thus putting himself on record. Archer considered. "May I ask," he said at length, "if this is the line you took with the Countess Olenska?" M. Riviere reddened, but his eyes did not falter. "No, Monsieur: I accepted my mission in good faith. I really believed--for reasons I need not trouble you with--that it would be better for Madame Olenska to recover her situation, her fortune, the social consideration that her husband's standing gives her." "So I supposed: you could hardly have accepted such a mission otherwise." "I should not have accepted it." "Well, then--?" Archer paused again, and their eyes met in another protracted scrutiny. "Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here." "You knew--?" "Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent. "The change--what sort of a change?" "Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!" M. Riviere paused. "Tenez--the discovery, I suppose, of what I'd never thought of before: that she's an American. And that if you're an American of HER kind--of your kind--things that are accepted in certain other societies, or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and-take--become unthinkable, simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska's relations understood what these things were, their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own; but they seem to regard her husband's wish to have her back as proof of an irresistible longing for domestic life." M. Riviere paused, and then added: "Whereas it's far from being as simple as that." Archer looked back to the President of the United States, and then down at his desk and at the papers scattered on it. For a second or two he could not trust himself to speak. During this interval he heard M. Riviere's chair pushed back, and was aware that the young man had risen. When he glanced up again he saw that his visitor was as moved as himself. "Thank you," Archer said simply. "There's nothing to thank me for, Monsieur: it is I, rather--" M. Riviere broke off, as if speech for him too were difficult. "I should like, though," he continued in a firmer voice, "to add one thing. You asked me if I was in Count Olenski's employ. I am at this moment: I returned to him, a few months ago, for reasons of private necessity such as may happen to any one who has persons, ill and older persons, dependent on him. But from the moment that I have taken the step of coming here to say these	you perhaps believe the whole matter to be already closed?" His quiet insistence made Archer feel the clumsiness of his own bluster. M. Riviere had succeeded in imposing himself: Archer, reddening slightly, dropped into his chair again, and signed to the young man to be seated. "I beg your pardon: but why isn't the matter closed?" M. Riviere gazed back at him with anguish. "You do, then, agree with the rest of the family that, in face of the new proposals I have brought, it is hardly possible for Madame Olenska not to return to her husband?" "Good God!" Archer exclaimed; and his visitor gave out a low murmur of confirmation. "Before seeing her, I saw--at Count Olenski's request--Mr. Lovell Mingott, with whom I had several talks before going to Boston. I understand that he represents his mother's view; and that Mrs. Manson Mingott's influence is great throughout her family." Archer sat silent, with the sense of clinging to the edge of a sliding precipice. The discovery that he had been excluded from a share in these negotiations, and even from the knowledge that they were on foot, caused him a surprise hardly dulled by the acuter wonder of what he was learning. He saw in a flash that if the family had ceased to consult him it was because some deep tribal instinct warned them that he was no longer on their side; and he recalled, with a start of comprehension, a remark of May's during their drive home from Mrs. Manson Mingott's on the day of the Archery Meeting: "Perhaps, after all, Ellen would be happier with her husband." Even in the tumult of new discoveries Archer remembered his indignant exclamation, and the fact that since then his wife had never named Madame Olenska to him. Her careless allusion had no doubt been the straw held up to see which way the wind blew; the result had been reported to the family, and thereafter Archer had been tacitly omitted from their counsels. He admired the tribal discipline which made May bow to this decision. She would not have done so, he knew, had her conscience protested; but she probably shared the family view that Madame Olenska would be better off as an unhappy wife than as a separated one, and that there was no use in discussing the case with Newland, who had an awkward way of suddenly not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted. Archer looked up and met his visitor's anxious gaze. "Don't you know, Monsieur--is it possible you don't know--that the family begin to doubt if they have the right to advise the Countess to refuse her husband's last proposals?" "The proposals you brought?" "The proposals I brought." It was on Archer's lips to exclaim that whatever he knew or did not know was no concern of M. Riviere's; but something in the humble and yet courageous tenacity of M. Riviere's gaze made him reject this conclusion, and he met the young man's question with another. "What is your object in speaking to me of this?" He had not to wait a moment for the answer. "To beg you, Monsieur--to beg you with all the force I'm capable of--not to let her go back.--Oh, don't let her!" M. Riviere exclaimed. Archer looked at him with increasing astonishment. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his distress or the strength of his determination: he had evidently resolved to let everything go by the board but the supreme need of thus putting himself on record. Archer considered. "May I ask," he said at length, "if this is the line you took with the Countess Olenska?" M. Riviere reddened, but his eyes did not falter. "No, Monsieur: I accepted my mission in good faith. I really believed--for reasons I need not trouble you with--that it would be better for Madame Olenska to recover her situation, her fortune, the social consideration that her husband's standing gives her." "So I supposed: you could hardly have accepted such a mission otherwise." "I should not have accepted it." "Well, then--?" Archer paused again, and their eyes met in another protracted scrutiny. "Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here." "You knew--?" "Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent. "The change--what sort of a change?" "Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!" M. Riviere paused. "Tenez--the discovery, I suppose, of what I'd never thought of before: that she's an American. And that if you're an American of HER kind--of your kind--things that are accepted in certain other societies, or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and-take--become unthinkable, simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska's relations understood what these things were, their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own; but they seem to regard her husband's wish to have her back as proof of an irresistible longing for domestic life." M. Riviere paused, and then added: "Whereas it's far from being as simple as that." Archer looked back to the President of the United States, and then down at his desk and at the papers scattered on it. For a second or two he could not trust himself to speak. During this interval he heard M. Riviere's chair pushed back, and was aware that the young man had risen. When he glanced up again he saw that his visitor was as moved as himself. "Thank you," Archer said simply. "There's nothing to thank me for, Monsieur: it is I, rather--" M. Riviere broke off, as if speech for him too were difficult. "I should like, though," he continued in a firmer voice, "to add one thing. You asked me if I was in Count Olenski's employ. I am at this moment: I returned to him, a few months ago, for reasons of private necessity such as may happen to any one who has persons, ill and older persons, dependent on him. But from the moment that I have taken the step of coming here to say these things to you I consider myself discharged, and I shall tell him so on my return, and give him the reasons. That's all, Monsieur." M. Riviere bowed and drew back a step. "Thank you," Archer said again, as their hands met. XXVI. Every year on the fifteenth of October Fifth Avenue opened its shutters, unrolled its carpets and hung up its triple layer of window-curtains. By the first of November this household ritual was over, and society had begun to look about and take stock of itself. By the fifteenth the season was in full blast, Opera and theatres were putting forth their new attractions, dinner-engagements were accumulating, and dates for dances being fixed. And punctually at about this time Mrs. Archer always said that New York was very much changed. Observing it from the lofty stand-point of a non-participant, she was able, with the help of Mr. Sillerton Jackson and Miss Sophy, to trace each new crack in its surface, and all the strange weeds pushing up between the ordered rows of social vegetables. It had been one of the amusements of Archer's youth to wait for this annual pronouncement of his mother's, and to hear her enumerate the minute signs of disintegration that his careless gaze had overlooked. For New York, to Mrs. Archer's mind, never changed without changing for the worse; and in this view Miss Sophy Jackson heartily concurred. Mr. Sillerton Jackson, as became a man of the world, suspended his judgment and listened with an amused impartiality to the lamentations of the ladies. But even he never denied that New York had changed; and Newland Archer, in the winter of the second year of his marriage, was himself obliged to admit that if it had not actually changed it was certainly changing. These points had been raised, as usual, at Mrs. Archer's Thanksgiving dinner. At the date when she was officially enjoined to give thanks for the blessings of the year it was her habit to take a mournful though not embittered stock of her world, and wonder what there was to be thankful for. At any rate, not the state of society; society, if it could be said to exist, was rather a spectacle on which to call down Biblical imprecations--and in fact, every one knew what the Reverend Dr. Ashmore meant when he chose a text from Jeremiah (chap. ii., verse 25) for	it was because some deep tribal instinct warned them that he was no longer on their side; and he recalled, with a start of comprehension, a remark of May's during their drive home from Mrs. Manson Mingott's on the day of the Archery Meeting: "Perhaps, after all, Ellen would be happier with her husband." Even in the tumult of new discoveries Archer remembered his indignant exclamation, and the fact that since then his wife had never named Madame Olenska to him. Her careless allusion had no doubt been the straw held up to see which way the wind blew; the result had been reported to the family, and thereafter Archer had been tacitly omitted from their counsels. He admired the tribal discipline which made May bow to this decision. She would not have done so, he knew, had her conscience protested; but she probably shared the family view that Madame Olenska would be better off as an unhappy wife than as a separated one, and that there was no use in discussing the case with Newland, who had an awkward way of suddenly not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted. Archer looked up and met his visitor's anxious gaze. "Don't you know, Monsieur--is it possible you don't know--that the family begin to doubt if they have the right to advise the Countess to refuse her husband's last proposals?" "The proposals you brought?" "The proposals I brought." It was on Archer's lips to exclaim that whatever he knew or did not know was no concern of M. Riviere's; but something in the humble and yet courageous tenacity of M. Riviere's gaze made him reject this conclusion, and he met the young man's question with another. "What is your object in speaking to me of this?" He had not to wait a moment for the answer. "To beg you, Monsieur--to beg you with all the force I'm capable of--not to let her go back.--Oh, don't let her!" M. Riviere exclaimed. Archer looked at him with increasing astonishment. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his distress or the strength of his determination: he had evidently resolved to let everything go by the board but the supreme need of thus putting himself on record. Archer considered. "May I ask," he said at length, "if this is the line you took with the Countess Olenska?" M. Riviere reddened, but his eyes did not falter. "No, Monsieur: I accepted my mission in good faith. I really believed--for reasons I need not trouble you with--that it would be better for Madame Olenska to recover her situation, her fortune, the social consideration that her husband's standing gives her." "So I supposed: you could hardly have accepted such a mission otherwise." "I should not have accepted it." "Well, then--?" Archer paused again, and their eyes met in another protracted scrutiny. "Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here." "You knew--?" "Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent. "The change--what sort of a change?" "Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!" M. Riviere paused. "Tenez--the discovery, I suppose, of what I'd never thought of before: that she's an American. And that if you're an American of HER kind--of your kind--things that are accepted in certain other societies, or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and-take--become unthinkable, simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska's relations understood what these things were, their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own; but they seem to regard her husband's wish to have her back as proof of an irresistible longing for domestic life." M. Riviere paused, and then added: "Whereas it's far from being as simple as that." Archer looked back to the President of the United States, and then down at his desk and at the papers scattered on it. For a second or two he could not trust himself to speak. During this interval he heard M. Riviere's chair pushed back, and was aware that the young man had risen. When he glanced up again he saw that his visitor was as moved as himself. "Thank you," Archer said simply. "There's nothing to thank me for, Monsieur: it is I, rather--" M. Riviere broke off, as if speech for him too were difficult. "I should like, though," he continued in a firmer voice, "to add one thing. You asked me if I was in Count Olenski's employ. I am at this moment: I returned to him, a few months ago, for reasons of private necessity such as may happen to any one who has persons, ill and older persons, dependent on him. But from the moment that I have taken the step of coming here to say these things to you I consider myself discharged, and I shall tell him so on my return, and give him the reasons. That's all, Monsieur." M. Riviere bowed and drew back a step. "Thank you," Archer said again, as their hands met. XXVI. Every year on the fifteenth of October Fifth Avenue opened its shutters, unrolled its carpets and hung up its triple layer of window-curtains. By the first of November this household ritual was over, and society had begun to look about and take stock of itself. By the fifteenth the season was in full blast, Opera and theatres were putting forth their new attractions, dinner-engagements were accumulating, and dates for dances being fixed. And punctually at about this time Mrs. Archer always said that New York was very much changed. Observing it from the lofty stand-point of a non-participant, she was able, with the help of Mr.	The Age Of Innocence
"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"	Tony Last	of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I	Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find	when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go	much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I	well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I	"Yes, I'm allowing her five hundred a year." "Well, you know, I don't think that you have any right to take advantage of her generosity in that way. It was most imprudent of her to consider your proposal--she admits now that she was not really herself when she did so." "What does she suggest instead?" "Let's go outside and have coffee." When they were settled in front of the fire in the empty smoking-room, he answered, "Well, I've discussed it with the lawyers and with the family and we decided that the sum should be increased to two thousand." "That's quite out of the question. I couldn't begin to afford it." "Well, you know, I have to consider Brenda's interests. She has very little of her own and there will be no more coming to her. My mother's income is an allowance which I pay under my father's will. I shan't be able to give her anything. I am trying to raise everything I can for an expedition to one of the oases in the Libyan desert. This chap Beaver has got practically nothing and doesn't look like earning any. So you see--" "But, my dear Reggie, you know as well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all,	had found forty-three up-to-date, before this wretched business happened, and I had to come back. Naturally I'm upset." He sat for a little, eating silently. This last observation had brought the conversation back to its point of departure. He clearly had more to say on the subject and was meditating the most convenient approach. He ate in a ruthless manner, champing his food (it was his habit, often, without noticing it, to consume things that others usually left on their plates, the heads and tails of whiting, whole mouthfuls of chicken bone, peach stones and apple cores, cheese rinds and the fibrous parts of the artichoke). "Besides, you know," he said, "it isn't as though it was all Brenda's fault." "I haven't been thinking particularly whose fault it is." "Well, that's all very well, but you seem rather to be taking the line of the injured husband--saying you can't feel the same again, and all that. I mean to say, it takes two to make a quarrel and I gather things had been going wrong for some time. For instance, you'd been drinking a lot--have some more burgundy, by the way." "Did Brenda say that?" "Yes. And then you'd been going round a bit with other girls yourself. There was some woman with a Moorish name you had to stay at Hetton while Brenda was there. Well, that's a bit thick, you know. I'm all for people going their own way, but if they do they can't blame others, if you see what I mean." "Did Brenda say that?" "Yes. Don't think I'm trying to lecture you or anything, but all I feel is that you haven't any right to be vindictive to Brenda, as things are." "She said I drank and was having an affair with the woman with a Moorish name?" "Well, I don't know she actually said that, but she said you'd been getting tight lately and that you were certainly interested in that girl." The fat young man opposite Tony ordered prunes and cream. Tony said he had finished dinner. He had imagined during the preceding week-end that nothing could now surprise him. "So that really explains what I want to say," continued Reggie blandly. "It's about money. I understand that when Brenda was in a very agitated state just after the death of her child, she consented to some verbal arrangement with you about settlements." "Yes, I'm allowing her five hundred a year." "Well, you know, I don't think that you have any right to take advantage of her generosity in that way. It was most imprudent of her to consider your proposal--she admits now that she was not really herself when she did so." "What does she suggest instead?" "Let's go outside and have coffee." When they were settled in front of the fire in the empty smoking-room, he answered, "Well, I've discussed it with the lawyers and with the family and we decided that the sum should be increased to two thousand." "That's quite out of the question. I couldn't begin to afford it." "Well, you know, I have to consider Brenda's interests. She has very little of her own and there will be no more coming to her. My mother's income is an allowance which I pay under my father's will. I shan't be able to give her anything. I am trying to raise everything I can for an expedition to one of the oases in the Libyan desert. This chap Beaver has got practically nothing and doesn't look like earning any. So you see--" "But, my dear Reggie, you know as well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?" "Yes, I'm here." "You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?" "But look here, my dear fellow." "Good night. Thank you for the dinner. Good luck to the excavations." On his way out of the club he noticed that John Beaver of Bratt's Club was up for election. * * * * * "Who on earth would have expected the	haven't any right to be vindictive to Brenda, as things are." "She said I drank and was having an affair with the woman with a Moorish name?" "Well, I don't know she actually said that, but she said you'd been getting tight lately and that you were certainly interested in that girl." The fat young man opposite Tony ordered prunes and cream. Tony said he had finished dinner. He had imagined during the preceding week-end that nothing could now surprise him. "So that really explains what I want to say," continued Reggie blandly. "It's about money. I understand that when Brenda was in a very agitated state just after the death of her child, she consented to some verbal arrangement with you about settlements." "Yes, I'm allowing her five hundred a year." "Well, you know, I don't think that you have any right to take advantage of her generosity in that way. It was most imprudent of her to consider your proposal--she admits now that she was not really herself when she did so." "What does she suggest instead?" "Let's go outside and have coffee." When they were settled in front of the fire in the empty smoking-room, he answered, "Well, I've discussed it with the lawyers and with the family and we decided that the sum should be increased to two thousand." "That's quite out of the question. I couldn't begin to afford it." "Well, you know, I have to consider Brenda's interests. She has very little of her own and there will be no more coming to her. My mother's income is an allowance which I pay under my father's will. I shan't be able to give her anything. I am trying to raise everything I can for an expedition to one of the oases in the Libyan desert. This chap Beaver has got practically nothing and doesn't look like earning any. So you see--" "But, my dear Reggie, you know as well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of	A Handful Of Dust
he said.	No speaker	door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a	he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get	eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as	up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is	house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who	and he felt rather on a supreme adventure. He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret s amongst them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, "Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life." "Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong." The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had sense. "Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. "He s shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air." Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. "That s enough," said Charles. "Yes, murder s enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non." "Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?" "Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles." On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun. "It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there, and they had the man up there with them too." "What--what man?" "I told you last night. His name was Bast." "My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother s house! Charles, in your mother s house!" "I know, pater. That	of "now." She did not free Leonard yet, and the knife plunged deeper into his heart as the train drew up at Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful. Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting. Leonard noticed the contrast when he stepped out of it into the country. Here men had been up since dawn. Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by the movements of the crops and the sun. That they were men of the finest type only the sentimentalists can declare. But they kept to the life of daylight. They are England s hope. Clumsily they carry forward the torch of the sun, until such time as the nation sees fit to take it up. Half clodhopper, half board-school prig, they can still throw back to a nobler stock, and breed yeomen. At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was another type, whom Nature favours--the Imperial. Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes to inherit the earth. It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly; strong is the temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman, who carries his country s virtue overseas. But the Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems. He is a destroyer. He prepares the way for cosmopolitanism, and though his ambitions may be fulfilled, the earth that he inherits will be grey. To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the conviction of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not the optimism which he had been taught at school. Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the superficial. It was rather paradoxical, and arose from his sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him--that is the best account of it that has yet been given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that is great in us, and strengthen the wings of love. They can beckon; it is not certain that they will, for they are not love s servants. But they can beckon, and the knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him. As he approached the house all thought stopped. Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind. He was terrified but happy, ashamed, but had done no sin. He knew the confession: "Mrs. Wilcox, I have done wrong," but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt rather on a supreme adventure. He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret s amongst them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, "Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life." "Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong." The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had sense. "Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. "He s shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air." Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. "That s enough," said Charles. "Yes, murder s enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non." "Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?" "Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles." On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun. "It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there, and they had the man up there with them too." "What--what man?" "I told you last night. His name was Bast." "My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother s house! Charles, in your mother s house!" "I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went off. The police are seeing about it at this moment." Mr. Wilcox listened attentively. "I got up there--oh, it couldn t have been more than half-past seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and collected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, and Mrs. Wilcox said," Oh yes, I see; yes, "in that way of hers." "Nothing else?" "I promised to tell you, with her love, that she was going to Germany with her sister this evening. That was all we had time for." Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved. "Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hiding, for suddenly Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his name. I recognised it, and I went for him in the hall. Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little too far." "Right, my dear boy? I don t know. But you would have been no son of mine if you hadn t. Then did he just--just--crumple up as you said?" He shrunk from the simple word. "He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down over him. So I merely put the sword down and carried him into the garden. We all thought he was shamming. However, he s dead right enough. Awful business!" "Sword?" cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. "What sword? Whose sword?" "A sword of theirs." "What were you doing with it?" "Well, didn t you see, pater, I had to snatch up the first thing handy. I hadn t a riding-whip or stick. I caught him once or twice over the shoulders with the flat of their old German sword." "Then what?" "He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell," said Charles, with a sigh. It was no fun doing errands for his father, who was never quite satisfied. "But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you re sure?" "That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than enough at the inquest on such unsavoury topics." They went in to breakfast. Charles had a racking headache, consequent on	be grey. To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the conviction of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not the optimism which he had been taught at school. Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the superficial. It was rather paradoxical, and arose from his sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him--that is the best account of it that has yet been given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that is great in us, and strengthen the wings of love. They can beckon; it is not certain that they will, for they are not love s servants. But they can beckon, and the knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him. As he approached the house all thought stopped. Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind. He was terrified but happy, ashamed, but had done no sin. He knew the confession: "Mrs. Wilcox, I have done wrong," but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt rather on a supreme adventure. He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret s amongst them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, "Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life." "Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong." The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had sense. "Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. "He s shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air." Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. "That s enough," said Charles. "Yes, murder s enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non." "Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?" "Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles." On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun. "It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there, and they had the man up there with them too." "What--what man?" "I told you last night. His name was Bast." "My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother s house! Charles, in your mother s house!" "I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went off. The police are seeing about it at this moment." Mr. Wilcox listened attentively. "I got up there--oh, it couldn t have been more than half-past seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and collected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, and Mrs. Wilcox said," Oh yes, I see; yes, "in that way of hers." "Nothing else?" "I promised to tell you, with her love, that she was going to Germany with her sister this	Howards End
Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said	No speaker	I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that	reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on	to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You	can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace." Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question. "No," said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell." And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child "I wish I knew why I was hurt so much." Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then	costly robe in his hand. "I know what you mean," he cried, "and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace." Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question. "No," said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell." And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child "I wish I knew why I was hurt so much." Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said "I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also." The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the	world, I sent you out to war. I sat in the darkness, where there is not any created thing, and to you I was only a voice commanding valour and an unnatural virtue. You heard the voice in the dark, and you never heard it again. The sun in heaven denied it, the earth and sky denied it, all human wisdom denied it. And when I met you in the daylight I denied it myself." Syme stirred sharply in his seat, but otherwise there was silence, and the incomprehensible went on. "But you were men. You did not forget your secret honour, though the whole cosmos turned an engine of torture to tear it out of you. I knew how near you were to hell. I know how you, Thursday, crossed swords with King Satan, and how you, Wednesday, named me in the hour without hope." There was complete silence in the starlit garden, and then the black-browed Secretary, implacable, turned in his chair towards Sunday, and said in a harsh voice "Who and what are you?" "I am the Sabbath," said the other without moving. "I am the peace of God." The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand. "I know what you mean," he cried, "and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace." Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question. "No," said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell." And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child "I wish I knew why I was hurt so much." Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said "I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also." The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the servants, a kind of sword by his side. It was only when he had come quite close to the crescent of the seven and flung up his face to look at them, that Syme saw, with thunder-struck clearness, that the face was the broad, almost ape-like face of his old friend Gregory, with its rank red hair and its insulting smile. "Gregory!" gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat. "Why, this is the real anarchist!" "Yes," said Gregory, with a great and dangerous restraint, "I am the real anarchist." "'Now there was a day,'" murmured Bull, who seemed really to have fallen asleep, "'when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.'" "You are right," said Gregory, and gazed all round. "I am a destroyer. I would destroy the world if I could." A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and he spoke brokenly and without sequence. "Oh, most unhappy man," he cried, "try to be happy! You have red hair like your sister." "My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world," said Gregory. "I thought I hated everything more than common men	draped plainly, in a pure and terrible white, and his hair was like a silver flame on his forehead. For a long time it seemed for hours that huge masquerade of mankind swayed and stamped in front of them to marching and exultant music. Every couple dancing seemed a separate romance; it might be a fairy dancing with a pillar-box, or a peasant girl dancing with the moon; but in each case it was, somehow, as absurd as Alice in Wonderland, yet as grave and kind as a love story. At last, however, the thick crowd began to thin itself. Couples strolled away into the garden-walks, or began to drift towards that end of the building where stood smoking, in huge pots like fish-kettles, some hot and scented mixtures of old ale or wine. Above all these, upon a sort of black framework on the roof of the house, roared in its iron basket a gigantic bonfire, which lit up the land for miles. It flung the homely effect of firelight over the face of vast forests of grey or brown, and it seemed to fill with warmth even the emptiness of upper night. Yet this also, after a time, was allowed to grow fainter; the dim groups gathered more and more round the great cauldrons, or passed, laughing and clattering, into the inner passages of that ancient house. Soon there were only some ten loiterers in the garden; soon only four. Finally the last stray merry-maker ran into the house whooping to his companions. The fire faded, and the slow, strong stars came out. And the seven strange men were left alone, like seven stone statues on their chairs of stone. Not one of them had spoken a word. They seemed in no haste to do so, but heard in silence the hum of insects and the distant song of one bird. Then Sunday spoke, but so dreamily that he might have been continuing a conversation rather than beginning one. "We will eat and drink later," he said. "Let us remain together a little, we who have loved each other so sadly, and have fought so long. I seem to remember only centuries of heroic war, in which you were always heroes epic on epic, iliad on iliad, and you always brothers in arms. Whether it was but recently (for time is nothing), or at the beginning of the world, I sent you out to war. I sat in the darkness, where there is not any created thing, and to you I was only a voice commanding valour and an unnatural virtue. You heard the voice in the dark, and you never heard it again. The sun in heaven denied it, the earth and sky denied it, all human wisdom denied it. And when I met you in the daylight I denied it myself." Syme stirred sharply in his seat, but otherwise there was silence, and the incomprehensible went on. "But you were men. You did not forget your secret honour, though the whole cosmos turned an engine of torture to tear it out of you. I knew how near you were to hell. I know how you, Thursday, crossed swords with King Satan, and how you, Wednesday, named me in the hour without hope." There was complete silence in the starlit garden, and then the black-browed Secretary, implacable, turned in his chair towards Sunday, and said in a harsh voice "Who and what are you?" "I am the Sabbath," said the other without moving. "I am the peace of God." The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand. "I know what you mean," he cried, "and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace." Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question. "No," said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell." And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child "I wish I knew why I was hurt so much." Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said "I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also." The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the servants, a kind of sword by his side. It was only when he had come quite close to the crescent of the seven and flung up his face to look at them, that Syme saw, with thunder-struck clearness, that the face was the broad, almost ape-like face of his old friend Gregory, with its rank red hair and its insulting smile. "Gregory!" gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat. "Why, this is the real anarchist!" "Yes," said Gregory, with a great and dangerous restraint, "I am the real anarchist." "'Now there was a day,'" murmured Bull, who seemed really to have fallen asleep, "'when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.'" "You are right," said Gregory, and gazed all round. "I am a destroyer. I would destroy the world if I could." A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and he spoke brokenly and without sequence. "Oh, most unhappy man," he cried, "try to be happy! You have red hair like your sister." "My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world," said Gregory. "I thought I hated everything more than common men can hate anything; but I find that I do not hate everything so much as I hate you!" "I never hated you," said Syme very sadly. Then out of this unintelligible creature the last thunders broke. "You!" he cried. "You never hated because you never lived. I know what you are all of you, from first to last you are the people in power! You are the police the great fat, smiling men in blue and buttons! You are the Law, and you have never been broken. But is there a free soul alive that does not long to break you, only because you have never been broken? We in revolt talk all kind of nonsense doubtless about this crime or that crime of the Government. It is all folly! The only crime of the Government is that it governs. The unpardonable sin of the supreme power is that it is supreme. I do not curse you for being cruel. I do not curse you (though I might) for being kind. I curse you for being safe! You sit in your chairs of stone, and have never come down from them. You are the seven angels of heaven, and you have had no troubles. Oh, I could forgive you everything, you that rule all mankind, if I could feel for once that you had suffered for one hour a real agony such as I" Syme sprang to his feet, shaking from head to foot. "I see everything," he cried, "everything that there is. Why does each thing on the earth war against each other thing? Why does each small thing in the world have to fight against the world itself? Why does a fly have to fight the whole universe? Why does a dandelion have to fight the whole universe? For the same reason that I had to be alone in the dreadful Council of the Days. So that each thing that obeys law may have the glory and isolation of the anarchist. So that each man fighting for order may be as brave and good a man as the dynamiter. So that the real lie of Satan may be flung back in the face of this blasphemer, so that by tears and torture we may earn the right to say to this man, 'You lie!' No agonies can be too great to buy the right to say to this	always heroes epic on epic, iliad on iliad, and you always brothers in arms. Whether it was but recently (for time is nothing), or at the beginning of the world, I sent you out to war. I sat in the darkness, where there is not any created thing, and to you I was only a voice commanding valour and an unnatural virtue. You heard the voice in the dark, and you never heard it again. The sun in heaven denied it, the earth and sky denied it, all human wisdom denied it. And when I met you in the daylight I denied it myself." Syme stirred sharply in his seat, but otherwise there was silence, and the incomprehensible went on. "But you were men. You did not forget your secret honour, though the whole cosmos turned an engine of torture to tear it out of you. I knew how near you were to hell. I know how you, Thursday, crossed swords with King Satan, and how you, Wednesday, named me in the hour without hope." There was complete silence in the starlit garden, and then the black-browed Secretary, implacable, turned in his chair towards Sunday, and said in a harsh voice "Who and what are you?" "I am the Sabbath," said the other without moving. "I am the peace of God." The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand. "I know what you mean," he cried, "and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace." Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question. "No," said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell." And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child "I wish I knew why I was hurt so much." Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said "I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also." The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the servants, a kind of sword by his side. It was only when he had come quite close to the crescent of the seven and flung up his face to look at them, that Syme saw, with thunder-struck clearness, that the face was the broad, almost ape-like face of his old friend Gregory, with its rank red hair and its insulting	The Man Who Was Thursday
She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:	No speaker	"Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know	you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had	herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made	a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed,	he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and	he said, pushing her chair near the fire. She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's something I must tell you. I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?" "About myself. You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired ..." In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've been so wickedly overworked--" "Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child, Mary (who was so like her mother), had announced her engagement to the dullest	in an undertone to young Mrs. Newland; and he remembered Beaufort's coarse sneer at May's ineffectual beauty. A moment later he was in the hall, putting Madame Olenska's cloak about her shoulders. Through all his confusion of mind he had held fast to the resolve to say nothing that might startle or disturb her. Convinced that no power could now turn him from his purpose he had found strength to let events shape themselves as they would. But as he followed Madame Olenska into the hall he thought with a sudden hunger of being for a moment alone with her at the door of her carriage. "Is your carriage here?" he asked; and at that moment Mrs. van der Luyden, who was being majestically inserted into her sables, said gently: "We are driving dear Ellen home." Archer's heart gave a jerk, and Madame Olenska, clasping her cloak and fan with one hand, held out the other to him. "Good-bye," she said. "Good-bye--but I shall see you soon in Paris," he answered aloud--it seemed to him that he had shouted it. "Oh," she murmured, "if you and May could come--!" Mr. van der Luyden advanced to give her his arm, and Archer turned to Mrs. van der Luyden. For a moment, in the billowy darkness inside the big landau, he caught the dim oval of a face, eyes shining steadily--and she was gone. As he went up the steps he crossed Lawrence Lefferts coming down with his wife. Lefferts caught his host by the sleeve, drawing back to let Gertrude pass. "I say, old chap: do you mind just letting it be understood that I'm dining with you at the club tomorrow night? Thanks so much, you old brick! Good-night." "It DID go off beautifully, didn't it?" May questioned from the threshold of the library. Archer roused himself with a start. As soon as the last carriage had driven away, he had come up to the library and shut himself in, with the hope that his wife, who still lingered below, would go straight to her room. But there she stood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the factitious energy of one who has passed beyond fatigue. "May I come and talk it over?" she asked. "Of course, if you like. But you must be awfully sleepy--" "No, I'm not sleepy. I should like to sit with you a little." "Very well," he said, pushing her chair near the fire. She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's something I must tell you. I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?" "About myself. You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired ..." In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've been so wickedly overworked--" "Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child, Mary (who was so like her mother), had announced her engagement to the dullest and most reliable of Reggie Chivers's many sons; and there Archer had kissed her through her wedding veil before they went down to the motor which was to carry them to Grace Church--for in a world where all else had reeled on its foundations the "Grace Church wedding" remained an unchanged institution. It was in the library that he and May had always discussed the future of the children: the studies of Dallas and his young brother Bill, Mary's incurable indifference to "accomplishments," and passion for sport and philanthropy, and the vague leanings toward "art" which had finally landed the restless and curious Dallas in the office of a rising New York architect. The young men nowadays were emancipating themselves from the law and business and taking up all sorts of new things. If they were not absorbed in state politics or municipal reform, the chances were that they were going in for Central American archaeology, for architecture or landscape-engineering; taking a keen and learned interest in the prerevolutionary buildings of their own country, studying and adapting Georgian types, and protesting at the meaningless use of the word "Colonial." Nobody nowadays had "Colonial" houses except the millionaire grocers of the suburbs. But above all--sometimes Archer put it above all--it was in that library that the Governor of New York, coming down from Albany one evening to dine and spend the night, had turned to his host, and said, banging his clenched fist on the table and gnashing his eye-glasses: "Hang the professional politician! You're the kind of man the country wants, Archer. If the stable's ever to be cleaned out, men like you have got to lend a hand in the cleaning." "Men like you--" how Archer had glowed at the phrase! How eagerly he had risen up at the call! It was an echo of Ned Winsett's old appeal to roll his sleeves up and get down into the muck; but spoken by a man who set the example of the gesture, and whose summons to follow him was irresistible. Archer, as he looked back, was not sure that men like himself WERE what his country needed, at least in the active service to which Theodore Roosevelt had pointed; in fact, there was reason to think it did not, for after a year in the State Assembly he had not been re-elected, and had dropped back thankfully into obscure	for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child,	The Age Of Innocence
"Ask him about Vienna."	Jake Barnes	Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a	to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like	at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda,	us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting.	the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of	about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing	Was another fellow. Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now. Studying music." "How'd you come out?" "Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna." 'My God, Mister Gorton,' "said nigger," 'I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself swinging at me. I never did hit him.'" "Did you get any money?" "No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good." "What became of the nigger?" "Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address." "You probably did." "Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories." "Go on." "Let's eat." We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on." "Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog." "We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink," Bill said. "You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right," Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. "Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orl ans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. "They're going to cut a street through." "They would," Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees were shadows. "It's pretty grand," Bill said. "God, I love to get back." We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with their arms around each other. We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an S bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre Joyeux. Through the window of the Caf Aux Amateurs I saw the long zinc bar. Outside on	now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918,	The Sun Also Rises
"That is Jacobson s Yard,"	Mr. Sherlock Holmes	before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a	Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging	best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post,"	wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward. "We have no	and all." "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had a body of police in Jacobson s Yard, and arrested them when they came down." "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him suspicious lie snug for another week." "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their hiding-place," said I. "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward. "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light. We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the gaslight." "They are coming from work in the yard." "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at them. There is	handed over to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial directions as to her rudder." There ain t naught amiss with her rudder, "said the foreman." There she lies, with the red streaks. "At that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his launch." I want her to-night at eight o clock, "said he," eight o clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won t be kept waiting. "They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water s edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all." "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had a body of police in Jacobson s Yard, and arrested them when they came down." "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him suspicious lie snug for another week." "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their hiding-place," said I. "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward. "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light. We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the gaslight." "They are coming from work in the yard." "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at them. There is no _a priori_ probability about it. A strange enigma is man!" "Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested. "Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder." "Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly." "And there is the _Aurora_," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves to have the heels of us!" She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed behind two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up before we saw her. Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the shore, going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked	his companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back before it was broad light. Now, it was past three o clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had time to see what view the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they would make their way under cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged for passages to America or the Colonies." "But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings." "Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in spite of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small, and looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How, then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I could only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or yard, and so be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at a few hours notice." "That seems simple enough." "It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at once in this harmless seaman s rig and inquired at all the yards down the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the sixteenth Jacobson s I learned that the _Aurora_ had been handed over to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial directions as to her rudder." There ain t naught amiss with her rudder, "said the foreman." There she lies, with the red streaks. "At that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his launch." I want her to-night at eight o clock, "said he," eight o clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won t be kept waiting. "They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water s edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all." "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had a body of police in Jacobson s Yard, and arrested them when they came down." "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him suspicious lie snug for another week." "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their hiding-place," said I. "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward. "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light. We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the gaslight." "They are coming from work in the yard." "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at them. There is no _a priori_ probability about it. A strange enigma is man!" "Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested. "Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder." "Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly." "And there is the _Aurora_," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves to have the heels of us!" She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed behind two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up before we saw her. Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the shore, going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked gravely at her and shook his head. "She is very fast," he said. "I doubt if we shall catch her." "We _must_ catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth. "Heap it on, stokers! Make her do all she can! If we burn the boat we must have them!" We were fairly after her now. The furnaces roared, and the powerful engines whizzed and clanked, like a great metallic heart. Her sharp, steep prow cut through the river-water and sent two rolling waves to right and to left of us. With every throb of the engines we sprang and quivered like a living thing. One great yellow lantern in our bows threw a long, flickering funnel of light in front of us. Right ahead a dark blur upon the water showed where the _Aurora_ lay, and the swirl of white foam behind her spoke of the pace at which she was going. We flashed past barges, steamers, merchant-vessels, in and out, behind this one and round the other. Voices hailed us out of the darkness, but still the _Aurora_ thundered on, and still we followed close upon her track. "Pile it on, men, pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into the engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his eager, aquiline face. "Get every pound of steam you can." "I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the _Aurora_. "I am sure of it," said I. "We shall be up with her in a very few minutes." At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug with three barges in tow blundered in between us. It was only by putting our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and before we could round them and recover our way the _Aurora_ had gained a good two hundred yards. She was still, however, well in view, and the murky uncertain twilight was setting into a clear starlit night. Our boilers were strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated and creaked with the fierce energy which was driving us along. We had shot through the Pool, past the West India Docks, down the long Deptford Reach, and up again after rounding the Isle of Dogs. The dull blur in front of us resolved itself now clearly enough into the dainty _Aurora_. Jones turned our search-light upon her, so that we	he was very flush of money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water s edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all." "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had a body of police in Jacobson s Yard, and arrested them when they came down." "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him suspicious lie snug for another week." "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their hiding-place," said I. "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward. "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light. We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the gaslight." "They are coming from work in the yard." "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at them. There is no _a priori_ probability about it. A strange enigma is man!" "Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested. "Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder." "Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly." "And there is the _Aurora_," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she	The Sign Of The Four
"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."	Emma	staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte,	Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it	"Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for	am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very	there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine." "If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them." "Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know,	She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her." Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole. "I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine." "If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them." "Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance." "Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require	was received with a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated by her--and, as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side. The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family, the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte--a very elegant looking instrument--not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and explanations on Miss Bates's, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece--entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates's account, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could possibly have ordered it--but now, they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;--of course it must be from Colonel Campbell. "One can suppose nothing else," added Mrs. Cole, "and I was only surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her." Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole. "I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine." "If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them." "Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance." "Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are." "And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very decided." "And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?--A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her." "He did. I was there--one of the party." "Were you really?--Well!--But you observed nothing of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.--If I had been there, I think I should have made some discoveries." "I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught her.--It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durable--indeed I believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again--yet that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries." The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said, "The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon." "And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the Campbells." "No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business." "Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings carry my judgment along	letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her." Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole. "I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine." "If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them." "Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance." "Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are." "And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very decided." "And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?--A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her." "He did. I was there--one of the party." "Were you really?--Well!--But you observed	Emma
"I wish the wretches could be punished,"	Don Lavington	friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I	poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that."	at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with	the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no	awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire. "Wonder where they'll take us?" said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to	long, bellowing note; the paddles dipped almost as one into the water, and the men burst into a triumphal chorus, as, for a few hundred yards, the great war canoes which they had captured swept with their freight of spoil at a rapid rate southward along the shore. Then the sudden burst of energy ceased, the song broke off, the speed diminished; and the men slowly dipped their paddles in a heavy, drowsy way. Every now and then one of the warriors ceased paddling, or contented himself with going through the motion; but still the great serpent-like vessels glided on, though slowly, while the darkness came on rapidly, and the water flashed as its phosphorescent inhabitants were disturbed. The darkness grew intense, but not for long. Soon a gradual lightening became visible in the east, and suddenly a flash of light glanced along the surface of the sea, as the moon slowly rose to give a weird aspect to the long row of dusky warriors sluggishly urging the great canoes onward. Don and Jem had the good fortune to be together in the largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire. "Wonder where they'll take us?" said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of 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	take a spear apiece, and kill the lot. What do you say?" "The same as you will, if you think, Jem," replied Don. "No." "No, it is, Mas' Don, of course. Englishmen couldn't do such a thing as that." "But only let us have a fair chance at them again, Jem, and I don't think we shall feel very sorry if we slay a few." "Sorry?" said Jem, between his teeth. "I mean a hundred of 'em at least, as soon as we can get away; and get away we will." They sat listening till the horrible feast below was at an end, and everything became so silent that they concluded that the enemy must be asleep, and began to wonder that the prisoners should all crouch together in so apathetic a state. But all at once, when everything seemed most still, and half the prisoners were dozing, there came the heavy trampling of feet; the guards roused up, and in the dim light of the late evening, the bonds which secured the captives' feet were loosened, and, like a herd of cattle, they were driven down from the platform upon which the _pah_ was constructed, and along the slope to the sands, where the canoes rode lightly on the swell. Into these they were forced to climb, some getting in with alacrity, others slowly and painfully; two or three falling helplessly in the water, and then, half drowned, being dragged in over the side. "Not a bit sorry I killed some of 'em," muttered Jem. "They arn't men, Mas' Don, but savage beasts." It did not take long, for there was plenty of room in the little fleet of canoes. The prisoners were divided, some being placed in the canoes with the plunder, and treated as if they were spoil. Others were divided among the long canoes, manned by the enemy, whose own wounded men, even to the worst, did not hesitate to take to a paddle, and fill their places. Some of the children whimpered, but an apathetic state of misery and dejection seemed to have affected even them, while in one or two cases, a blow from a paddle was sufficient to awe the poor little unfortunates into silence. As soon as the last man was in his place, a herculean chief waved his hands; one of his followers raised a great wooden trumpet, and blew a long, bellowing note; the paddles dipped almost as one into the water, and the men burst into a triumphal chorus, as, for a few hundred yards, the great war canoes which they had captured swept with their freight of spoil at a rapid rate southward along the shore. Then the sudden burst of energy ceased, the song broke off, the speed diminished; and the men slowly dipped their paddles in a heavy, drowsy way. Every now and then one of the warriors ceased paddling, or contented himself with going through the motion; but still the great serpent-like vessels glided on, though slowly, while the darkness came on rapidly, and the water flashed as its phosphorescent inhabitants were disturbed. The darkness grew intense, but not for long. Soon a gradual lightening became visible in the east, and suddenly a flash of light glanced along the surface of the sea, as the moon slowly rose to give a weird aspect to the long row of dusky warriors sluggishly urging the great canoes onward. Don and Jem had the good fortune to be together in the largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire. "Wonder where they'll take us?" said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of 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	became visible in the east, and suddenly a flash of light glanced along the surface of the sea, as the moon slowly rose to give a weird aspect to the long row of dusky warriors sluggishly urging the great canoes onward. Don and Jem had the good fortune to be together in the largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire. "Wonder where they'll take us?" said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of 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	Don Lavington
I said.	No speaker	drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said.	in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and	him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door	long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood	life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand	hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?" Edna asked. "We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so." "Well," I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's	that where she is?" Cohn turned to me. "Go to hell!" "She was with you. Is that where she is?" "Go to hell!" "I'll make you tell me" "--he stepped forward--" "you damned pimp." I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me up. Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike was pulling at my ears. "I say, you were cold," Mike said. "Where the hell were you?" "Oh, I was around." "You didn't want to mix in it?" "He knocked Mike down, too," Edna said. "He didn't knock me out," Mike said. "I just lay there." "Does this happen every night at your fiestas?" Edna asked. "Wasn't that Mr. Cohn?" "I'm all right," I said. "My head's a little wobbly." There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing around. "Vaya!" said Mike. "Get away. Go on." The waiters moved the people away. "It was quite a thing to watch," Edna said. "He must be a boxer." "He is." "I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big." "I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?" "All right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?" Edna asked. "We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so." "Well," I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning." "I'm going away in the morning." "Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed. * * * * * I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the street to the caf . The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone. "How many were they?" "Two gentlemen and a lady." That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night they would pass out. That was why I was to be sure to take her. I drank the coffee and hurried with the other people toward the bull-ring. I was not groggy now. There was only a bad headache. Everything looked sharp and clear, and the town smelt of the early morning. The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to the bull-ring was muddy. There was a crowd all along the fence that led to the ring, and the outside balconies and the top of the bull-ring	said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?" "All right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?" Edna asked. "We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I	The Sun Also Rises
There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.	No speaker	cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!"	a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course,	law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space,	pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the	of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr.	up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will	are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see." While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement. "What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage. "I tell you they were his," he repeated, with wild eyes, "and they were full of men in masks!" "Absurd!" said the Colonel angrily. "Dr. Renard would never give them his cars." "He may have been forced," said Ratcliffe quietly. "The whole town is on their side." "You still believe that," asked the Colonel incredulously. "You will all believe it soon," said the other with a hopeless calm. There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly "No, I can't believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town" He was cut short by a bang and a blaze of light, which seemed close to his eyes. As the car sped on it left a floating patch of white smoke behind it, and Syme had heard a shot shriek past his ear. "My God!" said the Colonel, "someone has shot at us." "It need not interrupt conversation," said the gloomy Ratcliffe. "Pray resume your remarks, Colonel. You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town." The staring Colonel was long past minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street. "It is extraordinary," he said, "most extraordinary." "A fastidious person," said Syme, "might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat." "I tell you it can't be!" cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the	"No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich."	The Man Who Was Thursday
"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"	Winnie-the-pooh	and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?"	the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking,	The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So	walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song: "How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue! Every little cloud _Always_ sings aloud." ""How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue!" It makes him very proud To be a little cloud." The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So I think I shall come down." "How?" asked you. Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with	got back to the tree. "I was beginning to get anxious. I have discovered that the bees are now definitely Suspicious." "Shall I put my umbrella up?" you said. "Yes, but wait a moment. We must be practical. The important bee to deceive is the Queen Bee. Can you see which is the Queen Bee from down there?" "No." "A pity. Well, now, if you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain,' I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing.... Go!" So, while you walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song: "How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue! Every little cloud _Always_ sings aloud." ""How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue!" It makes him very proud To be a little cloud." The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So I think I shall come down." "How?" asked you. Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?" "Of course I have," you said. "But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon," you said. "But if you _don't_," said Pooh, "I shall have to let go, and that would spoil _me_." When he put it like this, you saw how it was, and you aimed very carefully at the balloon, and fired. "_Ow!_" said Pooh. "Did I miss?" you asked. "You didn't exactly _miss_," said Pooh, "but you missed the _balloon_." "I'm so sorry," you said, and you fired again, and this time you hit the balloon, and the	no wind to blow him nearer to the tree, so there he stayed. He could see the honey, he could smell the honey, but he couldn't quite reach the honey. After a little while he called down to you. "Christopher Robin!" he said in a loud whisper. "Hallo!" "I think the bees _suspect_ something!" "What sort of thing?" "I don't know. But something tells me that they're _suspicious_!" "Perhaps they think that you're after their honey." "It may be that. You never can tell with bees." There was another little silence, and then he called down to you again. "Christopher Robin!" "Yes?" "Have you an umbrella in your house?" "I think so." "I wish you would bring it out here, and walk up and down with it, and look up at me every now and then, and say 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain.' I think, if you did that, it would help the deception which we are practising on these bees." Well, you laughed to yourself, "Silly old Bear!" but you didn't say it aloud because you were so fond of him, and you went home for your umbrella. "Oh, there you are!" called down Winnie-the-Pooh, as soon as you got back to the tree. "I was beginning to get anxious. I have discovered that the bees are now definitely Suspicious." "Shall I put my umbrella up?" you said. "Yes, but wait a moment. We must be practical. The important bee to deceive is the Queen Bee. Can you see which is the Queen Bee from down there?" "No." "A pity. Well, now, if you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain,' I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing.... Go!" So, while you walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song: "How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue! Every little cloud _Always_ sings aloud." ""How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue!" It makes him very proud To be a little cloud." The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So I think I shall come down." "How?" asked you. Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?" "Of course I have," you said. "But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon," you said. "But if you _don't_," said Pooh, "I shall have to let go, and that would spoil _me_." When he put it like this, you saw how it was, and you aimed very carefully at the balloon, and fired. "_Ow!_" said Pooh. "Did I miss?" you asked. "You didn't exactly _miss_," said Pooh, "but you missed the _balloon_." "I'm so sorry," you said, and you fired again, and this time you hit the balloon, and the air came slowly out, and Winnie-the-Pooh floated down to the ground. But his arms were so stiff from holding on to the string of the balloon all that time that they stayed up straight in the air for more than a week, and whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off. And I think--but I am not sure--that _that_ is why he was always called Pooh. * * * * * "Is that the end of the story?" asked Christopher Robin. "That's the end of that one. There are others." "About Pooh and Me?" "And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you. Don't you remember?" "I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget." "That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump----" "They didn't catch it, did they?" "No." "Pooh couldn't, because he hasn't any brain. Did _I_ catch it?" "Well, that comes into the story." Christopher Robin nodded. "I do remember," he said, "only Pooh doesn't very well, so that's why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just a remembering." "That's just how _I_ feel," I	honey with balloons!" "_I_ do," said Pooh. Well, it just happened that you had been to a party the day before at the house of your friend Piglet, and you had balloons at the party. You had had a big green balloon; and one of Rabbit's relations had had a big blue one, and had left it behind, being really too young to go to a party at all; and so you had brought the green one _and_ the blue one home with you. "Which one would you like?" you asked Pooh. He put his head between his paws and thought very carefully. "It's like this," he said. "When you go after honey with a balloon, the great thing is not to let the bees know you're coming. Now, if you have a green balloon, they might think you were only part of the tree, and not notice you, and, if you have a blue balloon, they might think you were only part of the sky, and not notice you, and the question is: Which is most likely?" "Wouldn't they notice _you_ underneath the balloon?" you asked. "They might or they might not," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "You never can tell with bees." He thought for a moment and said: "I shall try to look like a small black cloud. That will deceive them." "Then you had better have the blue balloon," you said; and so it was decided. Well, you both went out with the blue balloon, and you took your gun with you, just in case, as you always did, and Winnie-the-Pooh went to a very muddy place that he knew of, and rolled and rolled until he was black all over; and then, when the balloon was blown up as big as big, and you and Pooh were both holding on to the string, you let go suddenly, and Pooh Bear floated gracefully up into the sky, and stayed there--level with the top of the tree and about twenty feet away from it. "Hooray!" you shouted. "Isn't that fine?" shouted Winnie-the-Pooh down to you. "What do I look like?" "You look like a Bear holding on to a balloon," you said. "Not," said Pooh anxiously, "--not like a small black cloud in a blue sky?" "Not very much." "Ah, well, perhaps from up here it looks different. And, as I say, you never can tell with bees." There was no wind to blow him nearer to the tree, so there he stayed. He could see the honey, he could smell the honey, but he couldn't quite reach the honey. After a little while he called down to you. "Christopher Robin!" he said in a loud whisper. "Hallo!" "I think the bees _suspect_ something!" "What sort of thing?" "I don't know. But something tells me that they're _suspicious_!" "Perhaps they think that you're after their honey." "It may be that. You never can tell with bees." There was another little silence, and then he called down to you again. "Christopher Robin!" "Yes?" "Have you an umbrella in your house?" "I think so." "I wish you would bring it out here, and walk up and down with it, and look up at me every now and then, and say 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain.' I think, if you did that, it would help the deception which we are practising on these bees." Well, you laughed to yourself, "Silly old Bear!" but you didn't say it aloud because you were so fond of him, and you went home for your umbrella. "Oh, there you are!" called down Winnie-the-Pooh, as soon as you got back to the tree. "I was beginning to get anxious. I have discovered that the bees are now definitely Suspicious." "Shall I put my umbrella up?" you said. "Yes, but wait a moment. We must be practical. The important bee to deceive is the Queen Bee. Can you see which is the Queen Bee from down there?" "No." "A pity. Well, now, if you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain,' I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing.... Go!" So, while you walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song: "How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue! Every little cloud _Always_ sings aloud." ""How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue!" It makes him very proud To be a little cloud." The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So I think I shall come down." "How?" asked you. Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?" "Of course I have," you said. "But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon," you said. "But if you _don't_," said Pooh, "I shall have to let go, and that would spoil _me_." When he put it like this, you saw how it was, and you aimed very carefully at the balloon, and fired. "_Ow!_" said Pooh. "Did I miss?" you asked. "You didn't exactly _miss_," said Pooh, "but you missed the _balloon_." "I'm so sorry," you said, and you fired again, and this time you hit the balloon, and the air came slowly out, and Winnie-the-Pooh floated down to the ground. But his arms were so stiff from holding on to the string of the balloon all that time that they stayed up straight in the air for more than a week, and whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off. And I think--but I am not sure--that _that_ is why he was always called Pooh. * * * * * "Is that the end of the story?" asked Christopher Robin. "That's the end of that one. There are others." "About Pooh and Me?" "And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you. Don't you remember?" "I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget." "That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump----" "They didn't catch it, did they?" "No." "Pooh couldn't, because he hasn't any brain. Did _I_ catch it?" "Well, that comes into the story." Christopher Robin nodded. "I do remember," he said, "only Pooh doesn't very well, so that's why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just a remembering." "That's just how _I_ feel," I said. Christopher Robin gave a deep sigh, picked his Bear up by the leg, and walked off to the door, trailing Pooh behind him. At the door he turned and said, "Coming to see me have my bath?" "I might," I said. "I didn't hurt him when I shot him, did I?" "Not a bit." He nodded and went out, and in a moment I heard Winnie-the-Pooh--_bump, bump, bump_--going up the stairs behind him. CHAPTER II IN WHICH POOH GOES VISITING AND GETS INTO A TIGHT PLACE Edward Bear, known to his friends as Winnie-the-Pooh, or Pooh for short, was walking through the forest one day, humming proudly to himself. He had made up a little hum that very morning, as he was doing his Stoutness Exercises in front of the glass: _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la_, as he stretched up as high as he could go, and then _Tra-la-la, tra-la--oh, help!--la_, as he tried to reach his toes. After breakfast he had said it over and over to himself until he had learnt it off by heart, and now he was humming it right through, properly. It went like this: "_Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking along gaily, wondering what everybody else was doing, and what it felt like, being somebody else, when suddenly he came to a sandy bank, and in the bank was a large hole. "Aha!" said Pooh. (_Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._) "If I know anything about anything, that hole means Rabbit," he said, "and Rabbit means Company," he said, "and Company means Food and Listening-to-Me-Humming and such like. _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" So he bent down, put his head into the hole, and called out: "Is anybody at home?" There was a sudden scuffling noise from inside the hole, and then silence. "What I said was, 'Is anybody at home?'" called out Pooh very loudly. "No!" said a voice; and then added, "You needn't shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time." "Bother!" said Pooh. "Isn't there anybody here at all?" "Nobody." Winnie-the-Pooh took his head out of the hole, and thought for a little, and he thought to himself, "There must be somebody there, because somebody must have _said_ 'Nobody.'" So he put his head back in the hole, and said: "Hallo, Rabbit, isn't that you?" "No," said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this	may be that. You never can tell with bees." There was another little silence, and then he called down to you again. "Christopher Robin!" "Yes?" "Have you an umbrella in your house?" "I think so." "I wish you would bring it out here, and walk up and down with it, and look up at me every now and then, and say 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain.' I think, if you did that, it would help the deception which we are practising on these bees." Well, you laughed to yourself, "Silly old Bear!" but you didn't say it aloud because you were so fond of him, and you went home for your umbrella. "Oh, there you are!" called down Winnie-the-Pooh, as soon as you got back to the tree. "I was beginning to get anxious. I have discovered that the bees are now definitely Suspicious." "Shall I put my umbrella up?" you said. "Yes, but wait a moment. We must be practical. The important bee to deceive is the Queen Bee. Can you see which is the Queen Bee from down there?" "No." "A pity. Well, now, if you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain,' I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing.... Go!" So, while you walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song: "How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue! Every little cloud _Always_ sings aloud." ""How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue!" It makes him very proud To be a little cloud." The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So I think I shall come down." "How?" asked you. Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?" "Of course I have," you said. "But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon," you said. "But if you _don't_," said Pooh, "I shall have to let go, and that would spoil _me_." When he put it like this, you saw how it was, and you aimed very carefully at the balloon, and fired. "_Ow!_" said Pooh. "Did I miss?" you asked. "You didn't exactly _miss_," said Pooh, "but you missed the _balloon_." "I'm so sorry," you said, and you fired again, and this time you hit the balloon, and the air came slowly out, and Winnie-the-Pooh floated down to the ground. But his arms were so stiff from holding on to the string of the balloon all that time that they stayed up straight in the air for more than a week, and whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off. And I think--but I am not sure--that _that_ is why he was always called Pooh. * * * * * "Is that the end of the story?" asked Christopher Robin. "That's the end of that one. There are others." "About Pooh and Me?" "And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you. Don't you remember?" "I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget." "That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump----" "They didn't catch it, did they?" "No." "Pooh couldn't, because he hasn't any brain. Did _I_ catch it?" "Well, that comes into the story." Christopher Robin nodded. "I do remember," he said, "only Pooh doesn't very well, so that's why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just a remembering." "That's just how _I_ feel," I said. Christopher Robin gave a deep sigh, picked his Bear up by the leg, and walked off to the door, trailing Pooh behind him. At the door he turned and said, "Coming to see me have my bath?" "I might," I said. "I didn't hurt him	Winnie The Pooh
Margaret whispered.	No speaker	to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said	the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do.	call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the	share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she	and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." "Henry, I am awfully sorry." "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The	a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." "Henry, I am awfully sorry." "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don t you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen s plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man s past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand. She knew of life s seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied. "So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself	said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing. "They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he s qualified." "I ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn t be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." "Henry, I am awfully sorry." "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don t you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen s plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man s past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand. She knew of life s seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied. "So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself from saying more. "So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the hall. "We were saying--Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my point being--" Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene. "No, let me do that," said Henry, following. "Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!" The Colonel said gallantly: "I don t expect there s much to forgive." He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the branch-line. Still chattering, still thanking their host and patronising their future hostess, the guests were borne away. Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been your mistress?" "You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied. "When, please?" "Why?" "When, please?" "Ten years ago." She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy; it was Mrs. Wilcox s. CHAPTER XXVII Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of eight pounds in making some people ill and others angry. Now that the wave of excitement was ebbing, and had left her, Mr. Bast, and Mrs. Bast stranded for the night in a Shropshire hotel, she asked herself what forces had made the wave flow. At all events, no harm was done. Margaret would play the game properly now, and though Helen disapproved of her sister s methods, she knew that the Basts would benefit by them in the long-run. "Mr. Wilcox is so illogical," she explained to Leonard, who had put his wife to bed, and was sitting with her in the empty coffee-room. "If we told him it was his duty to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The fact is, he isn t properly educated. I don t want to set you against him, but you ll find him a trial." "I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel," was all that Leonard felt equal to. "I believe in personal responsibility. Don t you? And in personal everything. I hate--I suppose I oughtn t to say that--but the Wilcoxes are on the wrong tack surely. Or perhaps it isn t their fault. Perhaps the little thing that says I is missing out of the middle of their heads, and then it s a waste	thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." "Henry, I am awfully sorry." "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don t you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen s plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man s past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand.	Howards End
"Pretend indeed!"	Mrs. Sparsit	what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am	a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing,	have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's	I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most	little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or	the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the	first, because all gifts have an inevitable tendency to pauperise the recipient, and secondly, because his only reasonable transaction in that commodity would have been to buy it for as little as he could possibly give, and sell it for as much as he could possibly get; it having been clearly ascertained by philosophers that in this is comprised the whole duty of man not a part of man's duty, but the whole. "Pretty fair, ma'am. With the usual exception, ma'am," repeated Bitzer. "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head over her tea-cup, and taking a long gulp. "Mr. Thomas, ma'am, I doubt Mr. Thomas very much, ma'am, I don't like his ways at all." "Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very impressive manner, "do you recollect my having said anything to you respecting names?" "I beg your pardon, ma'am. It's quite true that you did object to names being used, and they're always best avoided." "Please to remember that I have a charge here," said Mrs. Sparsit, with her air of state. "I hold a trust here, Bitzer, under Mr. Bounderby. However improbable both Mr. Bounderby and myself might have deemed it years ago, that he would ever become my patron, making me an annual compliment, I cannot but regard him in that light. From Mr. Bounderby I have received every acknowledgment of my social station, and every recognition of my family descent, that I could possibly expect. More, far more. Therefore, to my patron I will be scrupulously true. And I do not consider, I will not consider, I cannot consider," said Mrs. Sparsit, with a most extensive stock on hand of honour and morality, "that I _should_ be scrupulously true, if I allowed names to be mentioned under this roof, that are unfortunately most unfortunately no doubt of that connected with his." Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again begged pardon. "No, Bitzer," continued Mrs. Sparsit, "say an individual, and I will hear you; say Mr. Thomas, and you must excuse me." "With the usual exception, ma'am," said Bitzer, trying back, "of an individual." "Ah h!" Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the point where it had been interrupted. "An individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, "has never been what he ought to have been, since he first came into the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated, "A Powler." "Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed	h!" Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the point where it had been interrupted. "An individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, "has never been what he ought to have been, since he first came into the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical	Hard Times
said Matthew with unusual vim.	No speaker	liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style	wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's	she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty.	at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see	go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet." Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. "A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger," she said severely. "Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should." "I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if you'll only keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an interesting little thing." "It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough to put your oar in." "There, there, Marilla,	stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?" "I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously. During Marilla's speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope; her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. "Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?" she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. "Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did?" "I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't," said Marilla crossly. "Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn't decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do." "I'd rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet." Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. "A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger," she said severely. "Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should." "I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if you'll only keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an interesting little thing." "It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough to put your oar in." "There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way," said Matthew reassuringly. "Only be as good and kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sort you can do anything with if you only get her to love you." Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pails. "I won't tell her tonight that she can stay," she reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. "She'd be so excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it. Did you ever suppose you'd see the day when you'd be adopting an orphan girl? It's surprising enough; but not so surprising as that Matthew should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed to have such a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on the experiment and goodness only knows what will come of it." CHAPTER VII. Anne Says Her Prayers \|WHEN Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly: "Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off.	or spiritual, into consideration and settling it out of hand. "It seems there's been a mistake about this little girl, Mrs. Blewett," she said. "I was under the impression that Mr. and Miss Cuthbert wanted a little girl to adopt. I was certainly told so. But it seems it was a boy they wanted. So if you're still of the same mind you were yesterday, I think she'll be just the thing for you." Mrs. Blewett darted her eyes over Anne from head to foot. "How old are you and what's your name?" she demanded. "Anne Shirley," faltered the shrinking child, not daring to make any stipulations regarding the spelling thereof, "and I'm eleven years old." "Humph! You don't look as if there was much to you. But you're wiry. I don't know but the wiry ones are the best after all. Well, if I take you you'll have to be a good girl, you know--good and smart and respectful. I'll expect you to earn your keep, and no mistake about that. Yes, I suppose I might as well take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The baby's awful fractious, and I'm clean worn out attending to him. If you like I can take her right home now." Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight of the child's pale face with its look of mute misery--the misery of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more caught in the trap from which it had escaped. Marilla felt an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. More-over, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, "highstrung" child over to such a woman! No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that! "Well, I don't know," she said slowly. "I didn't say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn't keep her. In fact I may say that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn't to decide on anything without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her we'll bring or send her over to you tomorrow night. If we don't you may know that she is going to stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?" "I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously. During Marilla's speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope; her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. "Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?" she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. "Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did?" "I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't," said Marilla crossly. "Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn't decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do." "I'd rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet." Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. "A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger," she said severely. "Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should." "I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if you'll only keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an interesting little thing." "It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough to put your oar in." "There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way," said Matthew reassuringly. "Only be as good and kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sort you can do anything with if you only get her to love you." Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pails. "I won't tell her tonight that she can stay," she reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. "She'd be so excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it. Did you ever suppose you'd see the day when you'd be adopting an orphan girl? It's surprising enough; but not so surprising as that Matthew should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed to have such a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on the experiment and goodness only knows what will come of it." CHAPTER VII. Anne Says Her Prayers \|WHEN Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly: "Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I can't allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven't any use at all for little girls who aren't neat." "I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn't think about my clothes at all," said Anne. "I'll fold them nicely tonight. They always made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though, I'd forget, I'd be in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things." "You'll have to remember a little better if you stay here," admonished Marilla. "There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and get into bed." "I never say any prayers," announced Anne. Marilla looked horrified astonishment. "Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Anne?" "?God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,'" responded Anne promptly and glibly. Marilla looked rather relieved. "So you do know something then, thank goodness! You're not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?" "Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words." ?Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.' "Isn't that grand? It has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it?" "We're not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little girl." "You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I've never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at	that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. More-over, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, "highstrung" child over to such a woman! No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that! "Well, I don't know," she said slowly. "I didn't say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn't keep her. In fact I may say that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn't to decide on anything without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her we'll bring or send her over to you tomorrow night. If we don't you may know that she is going to stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?" "I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously. During Marilla's speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope; her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. "Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?" she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. "Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did?" "I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't," said Marilla crossly. "Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn't decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do." "I'd rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet." Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. "A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger," she said severely. "Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should." "I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if you'll only keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an interesting little thing." "It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough to put your oar in." "There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way," said Matthew reassuringly. "Only be as good and kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sort you can do anything with if you only get her to love you." Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pails. "I won't tell her tonight that she can stay," she reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. "She'd be so excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it. Did you ever	Anne Of Green Gables
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”	Daisy	her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker	her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”	regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling	Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned	telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me. “I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?” “That’s why I came over tonight.” “Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—” “Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. “This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began. “Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.” “Is something happening?” I inquired innocently. “You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.” “I don’t.” “Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.” “Got some woman?” I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. “She might have the decency	is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. “This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?” There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me. “I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?” “That’s why I came over tonight.” “Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—” “Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. “This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began. “Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.” “Is something happening?” I inquired innocently. “You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.” “I don’t.” “Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.” “Got some woman?” I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. “She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?” Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. “It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?” “Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.” The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were	rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. “This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?” There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me. “I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?” “That’s why I came over tonight.” “Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—” “Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. “This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began. “Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.” “Is something happening?” I inquired innocently. “You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.” “I don’t.” “Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.” “Got some woman?” I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. “She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?” Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. “It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?” “Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.” The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl. “We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.” “I wasn’t back from the war.” “That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.” Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter. “I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.” “Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?” “Very much.” “It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’ “You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything	this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. “This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?” There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me. “I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?” “That’s why I came over tonight.” “Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—” “Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. “This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began. “Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.” “Is something happening?” I inquired innocently. “You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.” “I don’t.” “Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.” “Got some woman?” I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. “She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?” Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. “It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?” “Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.” The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. Daisy took her face in her	The Great Gatsby
said Ralph.	No speaker	to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on	destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to	doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs	white house and the tremulous old lady rising from behind her tea-table to greet her with faltering words about "my son s friends," and was on the point of asking Ralph to tell her what she might expect, when he jerked open one of the infinite number of identical wooden doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs and draperies, and to hear a hum, or rather a babble, of voices talking each other down, from the sound of them. The rigidity of extreme shyness came over her. She kept as far behind Denham as she could, and walked stiffly after him into a room blazing with unshaded	direction of the Tube station. Ignorant of the way, she resigned herself entirely to him, and found his silence a convenient cover beneath which to continue her anger with Rodney. When they stepped out of the train into the still grayer gloom of Highgate, she wondered, for the first time, where he was taking her. Had he a family, or did he live alone in rooms? On the whole she was inclined to believe that he was the only son of an aged, and possibly invalid, mother. She sketched lightly, upon the blank vista down which they walked, the little white house and the tremulous old lady rising from behind her tea-table to greet her with faltering words about "my son s friends," and was on the point of asking Ralph to tell her what she might expect, when he jerked open one of the infinite number of identical wooden doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs and draperies, and to hear a hum, or rather a babble, of voices talking each other down, from the sound of them. The rigidity of extreme shyness came over her. She kept as far behind Denham as she could, and walked stiffly after him into a room blazing with unshaded lights, which fell upon a number of people, of different ages, sitting round a large dining-room table untidily strewn with food, and unflinchingly lit up by incandescent gas. Ralph walked straight to the far end of the table. "Mother, this is Miss Hilbery," he said. A large elderly lady, bent over an unsatisfactory spirit-lamp, looked up with a little frown, and observed: "I beg your pardon. I thought you were one of my own girls. Dorothy," she continued on the same breath, to catch the servant before she left the room, "we shall want some more methylated spirits unless the	and more merciless towards her. By such courageous measures any one, he thought, could end the absurd passions which were the cause of so much pain and waste. He could foresee a time when his experiences, his discovery, and his triumph were made available for younger brothers who found themselves in the same predicament. He looked at his watch, and remarked that the gardens would soon be closed. "Anyhow," he added, "I think we ve seen enough for one afternoon. Where have the others got to?" He looked over his shoulder, and, seeing no trace of them, remarked at once: "We d better be independent of them. The best plan will be for you to come back to tea with me." "Why shouldn t you come with me?" she asked. "Because we re next door to Highgate here," he replied promptly. She assented, having very little notion whether Highgate was next door to Regent s Park or not. She was only glad to put off her return to the family tea-table in Chelsea for an hour or two. They proceeded with dogged determination through the winding roads of Regent s Park, and the Sunday-stricken streets of the neighborhood, in the direction of the Tube station. Ignorant of the way, she resigned herself entirely to him, and found his silence a convenient cover beneath which to continue her anger with Rodney. When they stepped out of the train into the still grayer gloom of Highgate, she wondered, for the first time, where he was taking her. Had he a family, or did he live alone in rooms? On the whole she was inclined to believe that he was the only son of an aged, and possibly invalid, mother. She sketched lightly, upon the blank vista down which they walked, the little white house and the tremulous old lady rising from behind her tea-table to greet her with faltering words about "my son s friends," and was on the point of asking Ralph to tell her what she might expect, when he jerked open one of the infinite number of identical wooden doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs and draperies, and to hear a hum, or rather a babble, of voices talking each other down, from the sound of them. The rigidity of extreme shyness came over her. She kept as far behind Denham as she could, and walked stiffly after him into a room blazing with unshaded lights, which fell upon a number of people, of different ages, sitting round a large dining-room table untidily strewn with food, and unflinchingly lit up by incandescent gas. Ralph walked straight to the far end of the table. "Mother, this is Miss Hilbery," he said. A large elderly lady, bent over an unsatisfactory spirit-lamp, looked up with a little frown, and observed: "I beg your pardon. I thought you were one of my own girls. Dorothy," she continued on the same breath, to catch the servant before she left the room, "we shall want some more methylated spirits unless the lamp itself is out of order. If one of you could invent a good spirit-lamp" she sighed, looking generally down the table, and then began seeking among the china before her for two clean cups for the new-comers. The unsparing light revealed more ugliness than Katharine had seen in one room for a very long time. It was the ugliness of enormous folds of brown material, looped and festooned, of plush curtains, from which depended balls and fringes, partially concealing bookshelves swollen with black school-texts. Her eye was arrested by crossed scabbards of fretted wood upon the dull green wall, and wherever there was a high flat eminence, some fern waved from a pot of crinkled china, or a bronze horse reared so high that the stump of a tree had to sustain his forequarters. The waters of family life seemed to rise and close over her head, and she munched in silence. At length Mrs. Denham looked up from her teacups and remarked: "You see, Miss Hilbery, my children all come in at different hours and want different things. (The tray should go up if you ve done, Johnnie.) My boy Charles is in bed with a cold. What	it s true. You never see what any one feels," she said. "You think of no one but yourself." "That is not true," said William. By his determined rattling he had now collected the animated attention of some half-dozen apes. Either to propitiate them, or to show his consideration for their feelings, he proceeded to offer them the apple which he held. The sight, unfortunately, was so comically apt in its illustration of the picture in her mind, the ruse was so transparent, that Katharine was seized with laughter. She laughed uncontrollably. William flushed red. No display of anger could have hurt his feelings more profoundly. It was not only that she was laughing at him; the detachment of the sound was horrible. "I don t know what you re laughing at," he muttered, and, turning, found that the other couple had rejoined them. As if the matter had been privately agreed upon, the couples separated once more, Katharine and Denham passing out of the house without more than a perfunctory glance round them. Denham obeyed what seemed to be Katharine s wish in thus making haste. Some change had come over her. He connected it with her laughter, and her few words in private with Rodney; he felt that she had become unfriendly to him. She talked, but her remarks were indifferent, and when he spoke her attention seemed to wander. This change of mood was at first extremely disagreeable to him; but soon he found it salutary. The pale drizzling atmosphere of the day affected him, also. The charm, the insidious magic in which he had luxuriated, were suddenly gone; his feeling had become one of friendly respect, and to his great pleasure he found himself thinking spontaneously of the relief of finding himself alone in his room that night. In his surprise at the suddenness of the change, and at the extent of his freedom, he bethought him of a daring plan, by which the ghost of Katharine could be more effectually exorcised than by mere abstinence. He would ask her to come home with him to tea. He would force her through the mill of family life; he would place her in a light unsparing and revealing. His family would find nothing to admire in her, and she, he felt certain, would despise them all, and this, too, would help him. He felt himself becoming more and more merciless towards her. By such courageous measures any one, he thought, could end the absurd passions which were the cause of so much pain and waste. He could foresee a time when his experiences, his discovery, and his triumph were made available for younger brothers who found themselves in the same predicament. He looked at his watch, and remarked that the gardens would soon be closed. "Anyhow," he added, "I think we ve seen enough for one afternoon. Where have the others got to?" He looked over his shoulder, and, seeing no trace of them, remarked at once: "We d better be independent of them. The best plan will be for you to come back to tea with me." "Why shouldn t you come with me?" she asked. "Because we re next door to Highgate here," he replied promptly. She assented, having very little notion whether Highgate was next door to Regent s Park or not. She was only glad to put off her return to the family tea-table in Chelsea for an hour or two. They proceeded with dogged determination through the winding roads of Regent s Park, and the Sunday-stricken streets of the neighborhood, in the direction of the Tube station. Ignorant of the way, she resigned herself entirely to him, and found his silence a convenient cover beneath which to continue her anger with Rodney. When they stepped out of the train into the still grayer gloom of Highgate, she wondered, for the first time, where he was taking her. Had he a family, or did he live alone in rooms? On the whole she was inclined to believe that he was the only son of an aged, and possibly invalid, mother. She sketched lightly, upon the blank vista down which they walked, the little white house and the tremulous old lady rising from behind her tea-table to greet her with faltering words about "my son s friends," and was on the point of asking Ralph to tell her what she might expect, when he jerked open one of the infinite number of identical wooden doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs and draperies, and to hear a hum, or rather a babble, of voices talking each other down, from the sound of them. The rigidity of extreme shyness came over her. She kept as far behind Denham as she could, and walked stiffly after him into a room blazing with unshaded lights, which fell upon a number of people, of different ages, sitting round a large dining-room table untidily strewn with food, and unflinchingly lit up by incandescent gas. Ralph walked straight to the far end of the table. "Mother, this is Miss Hilbery," he said. A large elderly lady, bent over an unsatisfactory spirit-lamp, looked up with a little frown, and observed: "I beg your pardon. I thought you were one of my own girls. Dorothy," she continued on the same breath, to catch the servant before she left the room, "we shall want some more methylated spirits unless the lamp itself is out of order. If one of you could invent a good spirit-lamp" she sighed, looking generally down the table, and then began seeking among the china before her for two clean cups for the new-comers. The unsparing light revealed more ugliness than Katharine had seen in one room for a very long time. It was the ugliness of enormous folds of brown material, looped and festooned, of plush curtains, from which depended balls and fringes, partially concealing bookshelves swollen with black school-texts. Her eye was arrested by crossed scabbards of fretted wood upon the dull green wall, and wherever there was a high flat eminence, some fern waved from a pot of crinkled china, or a bronze horse reared so high that the stump of a tree had to sustain his forequarters. The waters of family life seemed to rise and close over her head, and she munched in silence. At length Mrs. Denham looked up from her teacups and remarked: "You see, Miss Hilbery, my children all come in at different hours and want different things. (The tray should go up if you ve done, Johnnie.) My boy Charles is in bed with a cold. What else can you expect? standing in the wet playing football. We did try drawing-room tea, but it didn t do." A boy of sixteen, who appeared to be Johnnie, grumbled derisively both at the notion of drawing-room tea and at the necessity of carrying a tray up to his brother. But he took himself off, being enjoined by his mother to mind what he was doing, and shut the door after him. "It s much nicer like this," said Katharine, applying herself with determination to the dissection of her cake; they had given her too large a slice. She knew that Mrs. Denham suspected her of critical comparisons. She knew that she was making poor progress with her cake. Mrs. Denham had looked at her sufficiently often to make it clear to Katharine that she was asking who this young woman was, and why Ralph had brought her to tea with them. There was an obvious reason, which Mrs. Denham had probably reached by this time. Outwardly, she was behaving with rather rusty and laborious civility. She was making conversation about the amenities of Highgate, its development and situation. "When I first married," she said, "Highgate was quite separate from London, Miss Hilbery, and this house, though you wouldn t believe it, had a view of apple orchards. That was before the Middletons built their house in front of us." "It must be a great advantage to live at the top of a hill," said Katharine. Mrs. Denham agreed effusively, as if her opinion of Katharine s sense had risen. "Yes, indeed, we find it very healthy," she said, and she went on, as people who live in the suburbs so often do, to prove that it was healthier, more convenient, and less spoilt than any suburb round London. She spoke with such emphasis that it was quite obvious that she expressed unpopular views, and that her children disagreed with her. "The ceiling s fallen down in the pantry again," said Hester, a girl of eighteen, abruptly. "The whole house will be down one of these days," James muttered. "Nonsense," said Mrs. Denham. "It s only a little bit of plaster I don t see how any house could be expected to stand the wear and tear you give it." Here some family joke exploded, which Katharine could not follow. Even Mrs. Denham laughed against her will. "Miss Hilbery s	He would force her through the mill of family life; he would place her in a light unsparing and revealing. His family would find nothing to admire in her, and she, he felt certain, would despise them all, and this, too, would help him. He felt himself becoming more and more merciless towards her. By such courageous measures any one, he thought, could end the absurd passions which were the cause of so much pain and waste. He could foresee a time when his experiences, his discovery, and his triumph were made available for younger brothers who found themselves in the same predicament. He looked at his watch, and remarked that the gardens would soon be closed. "Anyhow," he added, "I think we ve seen enough for one afternoon. Where have the others got to?" He looked over his shoulder, and, seeing no trace of them, remarked at once: "We d better be independent of them. The best plan will be for you to come back to tea with me." "Why shouldn t you come with me?" she asked. "Because we re next door to Highgate here," he replied promptly. She assented, having very little notion whether Highgate was next door to Regent s Park or not. She was only glad to put off her return to the family tea-table in Chelsea for an hour or two. They proceeded with dogged determination through the winding roads of Regent s Park, and the Sunday-stricken streets of the neighborhood, in the direction of the Tube station. Ignorant of the way, she resigned herself entirely to him, and found his silence a convenient cover beneath which to continue her anger with Rodney. When they stepped out of the train into the still grayer gloom of Highgate, she wondered, for the first time, where he was taking her. Had he a family, or did he live alone in rooms? On the whole she was inclined to believe that he was the only son of an aged, and possibly invalid, mother. She sketched lightly, upon the blank vista down which they walked, the little white house and the tremulous old lady rising from behind her tea-table to greet her with faltering words about "my son s friends," and was on the point of asking Ralph to tell her what she might expect, when he jerked open one of the infinite number of identical wooden doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs and draperies, and to hear a hum, or rather a babble, of voices talking each other down, from the sound of them. The rigidity of extreme shyness came over her. She kept as far behind Denham as she could, and walked stiffly after him into a room blazing with unshaded lights, which fell upon a number of people, of different ages, sitting round a large dining-room table untidily strewn with food, and unflinchingly lit up by incandescent gas. Ralph walked straight to the far end of the table. "Mother, this is Miss Hilbery," he said. A large elderly lady, bent over an unsatisfactory spirit-lamp, looked up with a little frown, and observed: "I beg your pardon. I thought you were one of my own girls. Dorothy," she continued on the same breath, to catch the servant before she left the room, "we shall want some more methylated spirits unless the lamp itself is out of order. If one of you could invent a good spirit-lamp" she sighed, looking generally down the table, and then began seeking among the china before her for two clean cups for the new-comers. The unsparing light revealed more ugliness than Katharine had seen in one room for a very long time. It was the ugliness of enormous folds of brown material, looped and festooned, of plush curtains, from which depended balls and fringes, partially concealing bookshelves swollen with black school-texts. Her eye was arrested by crossed scabbards of fretted wood upon the dull	Night And Day
Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.	No speaker	the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't	us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights	he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash	bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed	"Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much	below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that,	sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady,	doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No,	Don Lavington
"Ah, that greengage-tree,"	Helen	could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the	simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of	down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning	be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege." "What nonsense--listen!"	s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege." "What nonsense--listen!" And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other	She hasn t unpacked the Art books, in which she may show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here." "The sword looks well, though." "Magnificent." "Yes, doesn t it?" "Where s the piano, Meg?" "I warehoused that in London. Why?" "Nothing." "Curious, too, that the carpet fits." "The carpet s a mistake," announced Helen. "I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful." "You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start? There s no carpet there." They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege." "What nonsense--listen!" And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too,	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 the Charles s had only one spare room, and so could not invite a third guest. "Henry would have done what he could," she interpreted. Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming. "This IS Mr. Wilcox s house?" she inquired. "Surely you remember Howards End?" "Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now." "Miss Avery was extraordinary," said Margaret, her own spirits lightening a little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought her relief, and she yielded to it. "She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and would rather furnish her home with our things than think of it empty. In consequence here are all the library books." "Not all the books. She hasn t unpacked the Art books, in which she may show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here." "The sword looks well, though." "Magnificent." "Yes, doesn t it?" "Where s the piano, Meg?" "I warehoused that in London. Why?" "Nothing." "Curious, too, that the carpet fits." "The carpet s a mistake," announced Helen. "I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful." "You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start? There s no carpet there." They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege." "What nonsense--listen!" And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we	the Art books, in which she may show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here." "The sword looks well, though." "Magnificent." "Yes, doesn t it?" "Where s the piano, Meg?" "I warehoused that in London. Why?" "Nothing." "Curious, too, that the carpet fits." "The carpet s a mistake," announced Helen. "I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful." "You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start? There s no carpet there." They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege." "What nonsense--listen!" And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree,"	Howards End
"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"	Mlle. Blanche	know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him."	all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did	(she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at	Even if he should not be so, he will not come amiss, since, in the first place, he has his pension, and, in the second place, he will be content to live in a back room; whereas _I_ shall be Madame General, and get into a good circle of society" (she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at a distance. As for the bridegroom, he took a great interest in his new position. Blanche herself tied his tie, and Blanche herself pomaded him with the result that, in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, he looked quite comme il faut. "Il est, pourtant, _tr s_ comme il faut," Blanche	never left me in my dreams. Do not speak of him again." It was now clear to me that Blanche and he were on the point of coming to terms; yet, true to my usual custom, I said nothing. At length, Blanche took the initiative in explaining matters. She did so a week before we parted. "Il a de la chance," she prattled, "for the Grandmother is now _really_ ill, and therefore, bound to die. Mr. Astley has just sent a telegram to say so, and you will agree with me that the General is likely to be her heir. Even if he should not be so, he will not come amiss, since, in the first place, he has his pension, and, in the second place, he will be content to live in a back room; whereas _I_ shall be Madame General, and get into a good circle of society" (she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at a distance. As for the bridegroom, he took a great interest in his new position. Blanche herself tied his tie, and Blanche herself pomaded him with the result that, in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, he looked quite comme il faut. "Il est, pourtant, _tr s_ comme il faut," Blanche remarked when she issued from his room, as though the idea that he was "_tr s_ comme il faut" had impressed even her. For myself, I had so little knowledge of the minor details of the affair, and took part in it so much as a supine spectator, that I have forgotten most of what passed on this occasion. I only remember that Blanche and the Widow figured at it, not as "de Cominges," but as "du Placet." Why they had hitherto been "de Cominges" I do not know I only know that this entirely satisfied the General, that he	word would please him; whereupon he would repeat it a hundred times in the day even though the word happened to express neither his thoughts nor his feelings. Again, I would try to get him to talk about his children, but always he cut me short in his old snappish way, and passed to another subject. "Yes, yes my children," was all that I could extract from him. "Yes, you are right in what you have said about them." Only once did he disclose his real feelings. That was when we were taking him to the theatre, and suddenly he exclaimed: "My unfortunate children! Yes, sir, they _are_ unfortunate children." Once, too, when I chanced to mention Polina, he grew quite bitter against her. "She is an ungrateful woman!" he exclaimed. "She is a bad and ungrateful woman! She has broken up a family. If there were laws here, I would have her impaled. Yes, I would." As for De Griers, the General would not have his name mentioned. "He has ruined me," he would say. "He has robbed me, and cut my throat. For two years he was a perfect nightmare to me. For months at a time he never left me in my dreams. Do not speak of him again." It was now clear to me that Blanche and he were on the point of coming to terms; yet, true to my usual custom, I said nothing. At length, Blanche took the initiative in explaining matters. She did so a week before we parted. "Il a de la chance," she prattled, "for the Grandmother is now _really_ ill, and therefore, bound to die. Mr. Astley has just sent a telegram to say so, and you will agree with me that the General is likely to be her heir. Even if he should not be so, he will not come amiss, since, in the first place, he has his pension, and, in the second place, he will be content to live in a back room; whereas _I_ shall be Madame General, and get into a good circle of society" (she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at a distance. As for the bridegroom, he took a great interest in his new position. Blanche herself tied his tie, and Blanche herself pomaded him with the result that, in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, he looked quite comme il faut. "Il est, pourtant, _tr s_ comme il faut," Blanche remarked when she issued from his room, as though the idea that he was "_tr s_ comme il faut" had impressed even her. For myself, I had so little knowledge of the minor details of the affair, and took part in it so much as a supine spectator, that I have forgotten most of what passed on this occasion. I only remember that Blanche and the Widow figured at it, not as "de Cominges," but as "du Placet." Why they had hitherto been "de Cominges" I do not know I only know that this entirely satisfied the General, that he liked the name "du Placet" even better than he had liked the name "de Cominges." On the morning of the wedding, he paced the salon in his gala attire and kept repeating to himself with an air of great gravity and importance: "Mlle. Blanche du Placet! Mlle. Blanche du Placet, du Placet!" He beamed with satisfaction as he did so. Both in the church and at the wedding breakfast he remained not only pleased and contented, but even proud. She too underwent a change, for now she assumed an air of added dignity. "I must behave altogether differently," she confided to me with a serious air. "Yet, mark you, there is a tiresome circumstance of which I had never before thought which is, how best to pronounce my new family name. Zagorianski, Zagozianski, Madame la G n rale de Sago, Madame la G n rale de Fourteen Consonants oh these infernal Russian names! The _last_ of them would be the best to use, don t you think?" At length the time had come for us to part, and Blanche, the egregious Blanche, shed real tears as she took her leave of me. "Tu tais bon enfant" she said with a	some money, though the General had a little of his own, and enjoyed taking out his purse before strangers. Once I had to use actual force to prevent him from buying a phaeton at a price of seven hundred francs, after a vehicle had caught his fancy in the Palais Royal as seeming to be a desirable present for Blanche. What could _she_ have done with a seven-hundred-franc phaeton? and the General possessed in the world but a thousand francs! The origin even of those francs I could never determine, but imagined them to have emanated from Mr. Astley the more so since the latter had paid the family s hotel bill. As for what view the General took of myself, I think that he never divined the footing on which I stood with Blanche. True, he had heard, in a dim sort of way, that I had won a good deal of money; but more probably he supposed me to be acting as secretary or even as a kind of servant to his inamorata. At all events, he continued to address me, in his old haughty style, as my superior. At times he even took it upon himself to scold me. One morning in particular, he started to sneer at me over our matutinal coffee. Though not a man prone to take offence, he suddenly, and for some reason of which to this day I am ignorant, fell out with me. Of course even he himself did not know the reason. To put things shortly, he began a speech which had neither beginning nor ending, and cried out, b tons rompus, that I was a boy whom he would soon put to rights and so forth, and so forth. Yet no one could understand what he was saying, and at length Blanche exploded in a burst of laughter. Finally something appeased him, and he was taken out for his walk. More than once, however, I noticed that his depression was growing upon him; that he seemed to be feeling the want of somebody or something; that, despite Blanche s presence, he was missing some person in particular. Twice, on these occasions, did he plunge into a conversation with me, though he could not make himself intelligible, and only went on rambling about the service, his late wife, his home, and his property. Every now and then, also, some particular word would please him; whereupon he would repeat it a hundred times in the day even though the word happened to express neither his thoughts nor his feelings. Again, I would try to get him to talk about his children, but always he cut me short in his old snappish way, and passed to another subject. "Yes, yes my children," was all that I could extract from him. "Yes, you are right in what you have said about them." Only once did he disclose his real feelings. That was when we were taking him to the theatre, and suddenly he exclaimed: "My unfortunate children! Yes, sir, they _are_ unfortunate children." Once, too, when I chanced to mention Polina, he grew quite bitter against her. "She is an ungrateful woman!" he exclaimed. "She is a bad and ungrateful woman! She has broken up a family. If there were laws here, I would have her impaled. Yes, I would." As for De Griers, the General would not have his name mentioned. "He has ruined me," he would say. "He has robbed me, and cut my throat. For two years he was a perfect nightmare to me. For months at a time he never left me in my dreams. Do not speak of him again." It was now clear to me that Blanche and he were on the point of coming to terms; yet, true to my usual custom, I said nothing. At length, Blanche took the initiative in explaining matters. She did so a week before we parted. "Il a de la chance," she prattled, "for the Grandmother is now _really_ ill, and therefore, bound to die. Mr. Astley has just sent a telegram to say so, and you will agree with me that the General is likely to be her heir. Even if he should not be so, he will not come amiss, since, in the first place, he has his pension, and, in the second place, he will be content to live in a back room; whereas _I_ shall be Madame General, and get into a good circle of society" (she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at a distance. As for the bridegroom, he took a great interest in his new position. Blanche herself tied his tie, and Blanche herself pomaded him with the result that, in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, he looked quite comme il faut. "Il est, pourtant, _tr s_ comme il faut," Blanche remarked when she issued from his room, as though the idea that he was "_tr s_ comme il faut" had impressed even her. For myself, I had so little knowledge of the minor details of the affair, and took part in it so much as a supine spectator, that I have forgotten most of what passed on this occasion. I only remember that Blanche and the Widow figured at it, not as "de Cominges," but as "du Placet." Why they had hitherto been "de Cominges" I do not know I only know that this entirely satisfied the General, that he liked the name "du Placet" even better than he had liked the name "de Cominges." On the morning of the wedding, he paced the salon in his gala attire and kept repeating to himself with an air of great gravity and importance: "Mlle. Blanche du Placet! Mlle. Blanche du Placet, du Placet!" He beamed with satisfaction as he did so. Both in the church and at the wedding breakfast he remained not only pleased and contented, but even proud. She too underwent a change, for now she assumed an air of added dignity. "I must behave altogether differently," she confided to me with a serious air. "Yet, mark you, there is a tiresome circumstance of which I had never before thought which is, how best to pronounce my new family name. Zagorianski, Zagozianski, Madame la G n rale de Sago, Madame la G n rale de Fourteen Consonants oh these infernal Russian names! The _last_ of them would be the best to use, don t you think?" At length the time had come for us to part, and Blanche, the egregious Blanche, shed real tears as she took her leave of me. "Tu tais bon enfant" she said with a sob. "Je te croyais b te et tu en avais l air, but it suited you." Then, having given me a final handshake, she exclaimed, "Attends!" "; whereafter, running into her boudoir, she brought me thence two thousand-franc notes. I could scarcely believe my eyes! "They may come in handy for you," she explained, "for, though you are a very learned tutor, you are a very stupid man. More than two thousand francs, however, I am not going to give you, for the reason that, if I did so, you would gamble them all away. Now good-bye. Nous serons toujours bons amis, and if you win again, do not fail to come to me, et tu seras heureux." I myself had still five hundred francs left, as well as a watch worth a thousand francs, a few diamond studs, and so on. Consequently, I could subsist for quite a length of time without particularly bestirring myself. Purposely I have taken up my abode where I am now partly to pull myself together, and partly to wait for Mr. Astley, who, I have learnt, will soon be here for a day or so on business. Yes, I know that, and then and then I shall go to Homburg. But to Roulettenberg I shall not go until next year, for they say it is bad to try one s luck twice in succession at a table. Moreover, Homburg is where the best play is carried on. XVII It is a year and eight months since I last looked at these notes of mine. I do so now only because, being overwhelmed with depression, I wish to distract my mind by reading them through at random. I left them off at the point where I was just going to Homburg. My God, with what a light heart (comparatively speaking) did I write the concluding lines! though it may be not so much with a light heart, as with a measure of self-confidence and unquenchable hope. At that time had I any doubts of myself? Yet behold me now. Scarcely a year and a half have passed, yet I am in a worse position than the meanest beggar. But what is a beggar? A fig for beggary! I have ruined myself that is all. Nor is there anything with which I can compare myself; there is no moral which it would be of any	short in his old snappish way, and passed to another subject. "Yes, yes my children," was all that I could extract from him. "Yes, you are right in what you have said about them." Only once did he disclose his real feelings. That was when we were taking him to the theatre, and suddenly he exclaimed: "My unfortunate children! Yes, sir, they _are_ unfortunate children." Once, too, when I chanced to mention Polina, he grew quite bitter against her. "She is an ungrateful woman!" he exclaimed. "She is a bad and ungrateful woman! She has broken up a family. If there were laws here, I would have her impaled. Yes, I would." As for De Griers, the General would not have his name mentioned. "He has ruined me," he would say. "He has robbed me, and cut my throat. For two years he was a perfect nightmare to me. For months at a time he never left me in my dreams. Do not speak of him again." It was now clear to me that Blanche and he were on the point of coming to terms; yet, true to my usual custom, I said nothing. At length, Blanche took the initiative in explaining matters. She did so a week before we parted. "Il a de la chance," she prattled, "for the Grandmother is now _really_ ill, and therefore, bound to die. Mr. Astley has just sent a telegram to say so, and you will agree with me that the General is likely to be her heir. Even if he should not be so, he will not come amiss, since, in the first place, he has his pension, and, in the second place, he will be content to live in a back room; whereas _I_ shall be Madame General, and get into a good circle of society" (she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at a distance. As for the bridegroom, he took a great interest in his new position. Blanche herself tied his tie, and Blanche herself pomaded him with the result that, in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, he looked quite comme il faut. "Il est, pourtant, _tr s_ comme il faut," Blanche remarked when she issued from his room, as though the idea that he was "_tr s_ comme il faut" had impressed even her. For myself, I had so little knowledge of the minor details of the affair, and took part in it so much as a supine spectator, that I have forgotten most of what passed on this occasion. I only remember that Blanche and the Widow figured at it, not as "de Cominges," but as "du Placet." Why they had hitherto been "de Cominges" I do not know I only know that this entirely satisfied the General, that he liked the name "du Placet" even better than he had liked the name "de Cominges." On the morning of the wedding, he paced the salon in his gala attire and kept repeating to himself with an air of great gravity and importance: "Mlle. Blanche du Placet! Mlle. Blanche du Placet, du Placet!" He beamed with satisfaction as he did so. Both in the church and at the wedding breakfast he remained not only pleased and contented, but even proud. She too underwent a change, for now she assumed an air of added dignity. "I must behave altogether differently," she confided to me with a serious air. "Yet, mark you, there is a tiresome circumstance of which I had never before thought which is, how best to pronounce my new family name. Zagorianski, Zagozianski, Madame la G n rale de Sago, Madame la G n rale de Fourteen Consonants oh these infernal Russian names! The _last_ of them would be the best to use, don t you think?" At length the time had	The Gambler
cried Oliver;	No speaker	God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and	upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I	eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this	stole cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with	the church-bell struck two. Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling. "The boy next," said Toby. "Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him." Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night." Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges. It was a little lattice window, about five feet	"Look out, Barney." The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again. It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rain fell, Oliver's hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was floating about. They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards the lights which he had seen before. They were at no great distance off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey. "Slap through the town," whispered Sikes; "there'll be nobody in the way, to-night, to see us." Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two. Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling. "The boy next," said Toby. "Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him." Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night." Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges. It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also. "Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; "I'm a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in." "There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach," interposed Toby. "Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms." "Keep quiet, can't you?" replied Sikes, with a threatening look. "The room-door is open, is it?" "Wide," replied Toby,	to drink it, Bill." "He had better!" said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. "Burn my body, if he isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse imp; drink it!" Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes. This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor: close outside the fender. They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell into a heavy doze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other of the scenes of the past day: when he was roused by Toby Crackit jumping up and declaring it was half-past one. In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively engaged in busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their necks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats; Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he hastily crammed into the pockets. "Barkers for me, Barney," said Toby Crackit. "Here they are," replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. "You loaded them yourself." "All right!" replied Toby, stowing them away. "The persuaders?" "I've got 'em," replied Sikes. "Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies nothing forgotten?" inquired Toby: fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat. "All right," rejoined his companion. "Bring them bits of timber, Barney. That's the time of day." With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney's hands, who, having delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on Oliver's cape. "Now then!" said Sikes, holding out his hand. Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the air, and the drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand mechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose. "Take his other hand, Toby," said Sikes. "Look out, Barney." The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again. It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rain fell, Oliver's hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was floating about. They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards the lights which he had seen before. They were at no great distance off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey. "Slap through the town," whispered Sikes; "there'll be nobody in the way, to-night, to see us." Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two. Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling. "The boy next," said Toby. "Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him." Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night." Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges. It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also. "Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; "I'm a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in." "There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach," interposed Toby. "Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms." "Keep quiet, can't you?" replied Sikes, with a threatening look. "The room-door is open, is it?" "Wide," replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. "The game of that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who's got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night. So neat!" Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside. "Take this lantern," said Sikes, looking into the room. "You see the stairs afore you?" Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, "Yes." Sikes, pointing to the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant. "It's done in a minute," said Sikes, in the same low whisper. "Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!" "What's that?" whispered the other man. They listened intently. "Nothing," said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. "Now!" In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily. "Come back!" suddenly cried Sikes aloud. "Back! back!" Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly. The cry was repeated a light appeared a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes a flash a loud noise a smoke a crash somewhere, but where he knew not, and he staggered back. Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the collar before the	the way, to-night, to see us." Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two. Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling. "The boy next," said Toby. "Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him." Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night." Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges. It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also. "Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; "I'm a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in." "There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach," interposed Toby. "Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms." "Keep quiet, can't you?" replied Sikes, with a threatening look. "The room-door is open, is it?" "Wide," replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. "The game of that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who's got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night. So neat!" Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a	Oliver Twist
"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."	Tony Last	people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in	and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at	delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways	want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's	are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation.	open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now	easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of earshot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said, "What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!" He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.	She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of earshot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts	A Handful Of Dust
Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,	No speaker	as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a	uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind	he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone	Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you	the information. I know everything, as I told you before. I am also aware of the social position of an Italian who pulls teeth in a minute provincial town." He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that it was pretty, low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she was sharp enough to say, "Indeed, Philip, you surprise me. I understood you went in for equality and so on." "And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of the Italian nobility." "Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to shock dear Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you will find him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady, accustomed to ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man whose position is--well, not equal to the son of the servants dentist in Coronation Place. I am not blaming you now. But I blame the glamour of Italy--I have felt it myself, you know--and I greatly blame Miss Abbott." "Caroline! Why blame her? What s all this to do with Caroline?" "Because we expected her to--" He saw that the answer would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, "So I am confident, and you in	We shall meet at twelve o clock lunch tomorrow, if we don t meet before. They give us caffe later in our rooms." It was a little too impudent. Philip replied, "I should like to see you now, please, in my room, as I have come all the way on business." He heard Miss Abbott gasp. Signor Carella, who was lighting a rank cigar, had not understood. It was as he expected. When he was alone with Lilia he lost all nervousness. The remembrance of his long intellectual supremacy strengthened him, and he began volubly-- "My dear Lilia, don t let s have a scene. Before I arrived I thought I might have to question you. It is unnecessary. I know everything. Miss Abbott has told me a certain amount, and the rest I see for myself." "See for yourself?" she exclaimed, and he remembered afterwards that she had flushed crimson. "That he is probably a ruffian and certainly a cad." "There are no cads in Italy," she said quickly. He was taken aback. It was one of his own remarks. And she further upset him by adding, "He is the son of a dentist. Why not?" "Thank you for the information. I know everything, as I told you before. I am also aware of the social position of an Italian who pulls teeth in a minute provincial town." He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that it was pretty, low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she was sharp enough to say, "Indeed, Philip, you surprise me. I understood you went in for equality and so on." "And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of the Italian nobility." "Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to shock dear Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you will find him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady, accustomed to ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man whose position is--well, not equal to the son of the servants dentist in Coronation Place. I am not blaming you now. But I blame the glamour of Italy--I have felt it myself, you know--and I greatly blame Miss Abbott." "Caroline! Why blame her? What s all this to do with Caroline?" "Because we expected her to--" He saw that the answer would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, "So I am confident, and you in your heart agree, that this engagement will not last. Think of your life at home--think of Irma! And I ll also say think of us; for you know, Lilia, that we count you more than a relation. I should feel I was losing my own sister if you did this, and my mother would lose a daughter." She seemed touched at last, for she turned away her face and said, "I can t break it off now!" "Poor Lilia," said he, genuinely moved. "I know it may be painful. But I have come to rescue you, and, book-worm though I may be, I am not frightened to stand up to a bully. He s merely an insolent boy. He thinks he can keep you to your word by threats. He will be different when he sees he has a man to deal with." What follows should be prefaced with some simile--the simile of a powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake--for it blew Philip up in the air and flattened him on the ground and swallowed him up in the depths. Lilia turned on her gallant defender and said-- "For once in my life I ll thank you to leave me alone.	more effective with Lilia if he had her alone, and pretended to himself that he must hear her defence before giving judgment. Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine, attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, "England is a great country. The Italians love England and the English." Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed. "Italy too," the other continued a little resentfully, "is a great country. She has produced many famous men--for example Garibaldi and Dante. The latter wrote the Inferno, the Purgatorio, the Paradiso. The Inferno is the most beautiful." And with the complacent tone of one who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening lines-- Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura Che la diritta via era smarrita-- a quotation which was more apt than he supposed. Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that she was marrying no ignoramus. Anxious to exhibit all the good qualities of her betrothed, she abruptly introduced the subject of pallone, in which, it appeared, he was a proficient player. He suddenly became shy and developed a conceited grin--the grin of the village yokel whose cricket score is mentioned before a stranger. Philip himself had loved to watch pallone, that entrancing combination of lawn-tennis and fives. But he did not expect to love it quite so much again. "Oh, look!" exclaimed Lilia, "the poor wee fish!" A starved cat had been worrying them all for pieces of the purple quivering beef they were trying to swallow. Signor Carella, with the brutality so common in Italians, had caught her by the paw and flung her away from him. Now she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to hook out the fish. He got up, drove her off, and finding a large glass stopper by the bowl, entirely plugged up the aperture with it. "But may not the fish die?" said Miss Abbott. "They have no air." "Fish live on water, not on air," he replied in a knowing voice, and sat down. Apparently he was at his ease again, for he took to spitting on the floor. Philip glanced at Lilia but did not detect her wincing. She talked bravely till the end of the disgusting meal, and then got up saying, "Well, Philip, I am sure you are ready for by-bye. We shall meet at twelve o clock lunch tomorrow, if we don t meet before. They give us caffe later in our rooms." It was a little too impudent. Philip replied, "I should like to see you now, please, in my room, as I have come all the way on business." He heard Miss Abbott gasp. Signor Carella, who was lighting a rank cigar, had not understood. It was as he expected. When he was alone with Lilia he lost all nervousness. The remembrance of his long intellectual supremacy strengthened him, and he began volubly-- "My dear Lilia, don t let s have a scene. Before I arrived I thought I might have to question you. It is unnecessary. I know everything. Miss Abbott has told me a certain amount, and the rest I see for myself." "See for yourself?" she exclaimed, and he remembered afterwards that she had flushed crimson. "That he is probably a ruffian and certainly a cad." "There are no cads in Italy," she said quickly. He was taken aback. It was one of his own remarks. And she further upset him by adding, "He is the son of a dentist. Why not?" "Thank you for the information. I know everything, as I told you before. I am also aware of the social position of an Italian who pulls teeth in a minute provincial town." He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that it was pretty, low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she was sharp enough to say, "Indeed, Philip, you surprise me. I understood you went in for equality and so on." "And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of the Italian nobility." "Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to shock dear Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you will find him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady, accustomed to ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man whose position is--well, not equal to the son of the servants dentist in Coronation Place. I am not blaming you now. But I blame the glamour of Italy--I have felt it myself, you know--and I greatly blame Miss Abbott." "Caroline! Why blame her? What s all this to do with Caroline?" "Because we expected her to--" He saw that the answer would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, "So I am confident, and you in your heart agree, that this engagement will not last. Think of your life at home--think of Irma! And I ll also say think of us; for you know, Lilia, that we count you more than a relation. I should feel I was losing my own sister if you did this, and my mother would lose a daughter." She seemed touched at last, for she turned away her face and said, "I can t break it off now!" "Poor Lilia," said he, genuinely moved. "I know it may be painful. But I have come to rescue you, and, book-worm though I may be, I am not frightened to stand up to a bully. He s merely an insolent boy. He thinks he can keep you to your word by threats. He will be different when he sees he has a man to deal with." What follows should be prefaced with some simile--the simile of a powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake--for it blew Philip up in the air and flattened him on the ground and swallowed him up in the depths. Lilia turned on her gallant defender and said-- "For once in my life I ll thank you to leave me alone. I ll thank your mother too. For twelve years you ve trained me and tortured me, and I ll stand it no more. Do you think I m a fool? Do you think I never felt? Ah! when I came to your house a poor young bride, how you all looked me over--never a kind word--and discussed me, and thought I might just do; and your mother corrected me, and your sister snubbed me, and you said funny things about me to show how clever you were! And when Charles died I was still to run in strings for the honour of your beastly family, and I was to be cooped up at Sawston and learn to keep house, and all my chances spoilt of marrying again. No, thank you! No, thank you! Bully? Insolent boy? Who s that, pray, but you? But, thank goodness, I can stand up against the world now, for I ve found Gino, and this time I marry for love!" The coarseness and truth of her attack alike overwhelmed him. But her supreme insolence found him words, and he too burst forth. "Yes! and I forbid you to do it! You despise me, perhaps, and think I m feeble. But you re mistaken. You are ungrateful and impertinent and contemptible, but I will save you in order to save Irma and our name. There is going to be such a row in this town that you and he ll be sorry you came to it. I shall shrink from nothing, for my blood is up. It is unwise of you to laugh. I forbid you to marry Carella, and I shall tell him so now." "Do," she cried. "Tell him so now. Have it out with him. Gino! Gino! Come in! Avanti! Fra Filippo forbids the banns!" Gino appeared so quickly that he must have been listening outside the door. "Fra Filippo s blood s up. He shrinks from nothing. Oh, take care he doesn t hurt you!" She swayed about in vulgar imitation of Philip s walk, and then, with a proud glance at the square shoulders of her betrothed, flounced out of the room. Did she intend them to fight? Philip had no intention of doing so; and no more, it seemed, had Gino, who stood nervously in the middle of the room with twitching lips and eyes. "Please sit down, Signor Carella,"	him. Now she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to hook out the fish. He got up, drove her off, and finding a large glass stopper by the bowl, entirely plugged up the aperture with it. "But may not the fish die?" said Miss Abbott. "They have no air." "Fish live on water, not on air," he replied in a knowing voice, and sat down. Apparently he was at his ease again, for he took to spitting on the floor. Philip glanced at Lilia but did not detect her wincing. She talked bravely till the end of the disgusting meal, and then got up saying, "Well, Philip, I am sure you are ready for by-bye. We shall meet at twelve o clock lunch tomorrow, if we don t meet before. They give us caffe later in our rooms." It was a little too impudent. Philip replied, "I should like to see you now, please, in my room, as I have come all the way on business." He heard Miss Abbott gasp. Signor Carella, who was lighting a rank cigar, had not understood. It was as he expected. When he was alone with Lilia he lost all nervousness. The remembrance of his long intellectual supremacy strengthened him, and he began volubly-- "My dear Lilia, don t let s have a scene. Before I arrived I thought I might have to question you. It is unnecessary. I know everything. Miss Abbott has told me a certain amount, and the rest I see for myself." "See for yourself?" she exclaimed, and he remembered afterwards that she had flushed crimson. "That he is probably a ruffian and certainly a cad." "There are no cads in Italy," she said quickly. He was taken aback. It was one of his own remarks. And she further upset him by adding, "He is the son of a dentist. Why not?" "Thank you for the information. I know everything, as I told you before. I am also aware of the social position of an Italian who pulls teeth in a minute provincial town." He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that it was pretty, low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she was sharp enough to say, "Indeed, Philip, you surprise me. I understood you went in for equality and so on." "And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of the Italian nobility." "Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to shock dear Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you will find him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady, accustomed to ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man whose position is--well, not equal to the son of the servants dentist in Coronation Place. I am not blaming you now. But I blame the glamour of Italy--I have felt it myself, you know--and I greatly blame Miss Abbott." "Caroline! Why blame her? What s all this to do with Caroline?" "Because we expected her to--" He saw that the answer would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, "So I am confident, and you in your heart agree, that this engagement will not last. Think of your life at home--think of Irma! And I ll also say think of us; for you know, Lilia, that we count you more than a relation. I should feel I was losing my own sister if you did this, and my mother would lose a daughter." She seemed touched at last, for she turned away her face and said, "I can t break it off now!" "Poor Lilia," said he, genuinely moved. "I know it may be painful. But I have come to rescue you, and, book-worm though I may be, I am not frightened to stand up to a bully. He s merely an insolent boy. He thinks he can keep you to your word by threats. He will be different when he sees he has a man to deal with." What follows should be prefaced with some simile--the simile of a powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake--for it blew Philip up in the air and flattened him on the ground and swallowed him up in the depths. Lilia turned on her gallant defender and said-- "For once in my life I ll thank you to leave me alone. I ll thank your mother too. For twelve years you ve trained me and tortured me, and I ll stand it no more. Do you think I m a fool? Do you think I never felt? Ah! when I came to your house a poor young bride, how you all looked me over--never a kind word--and discussed me, and thought I might just do; and your mother corrected me, and your sister snubbed me, and you said funny things about me to show how clever you were! And when Charles died I was still to run in strings for the honour of your beastly	Where Angels Fear To Tread
"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."	Miss Bartlett	She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their	a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing,	has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly	George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's	is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go,	women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced the	Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced the names of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we find it is to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. That is the man all over--playing tricks on people, on the most sacred form of life that he can find. Next, I meet you together, and find him protecting and teaching you and your mother to be shocked, when it was for YOU to settle whether you were shocked or no. Cecil all over again. He daren't let a woman decide. He's the type who's kept Europe back for a thousand years. Every moment of his life he's forming you, telling you what's charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what a man thinks womanly; and you, you of all women, listen to his voice instead of to your own. So it was at the Rectory, when I met you both again; so it has been the whole of this afternoon. Therefore--not" 'therefore I kissed you,' "because the book made me do that, and I wish to goodness I had more self-control. I'm not ashamed. I don't apologize. But it has frightened you, and you may not have noticed that I love you. Or would you have told me to go, and dealt with a tremendous thing so lightly? But therefore--therefore I settled to fight him." Lucy thought of a very good remark. "You say Mr. Vyse wants me to listen to him, Mr. Emerson. Pardon me for suggesting that you have caught the habit." And he took the shoddy reproof and touched it into immortality. He said: "Yes, I have," and sank down as if suddenly weary. "I'm the same kind of brute at bottom. This desire to govern a woman--it lies very deep, and men and women must fight it together before they shall enter the garden. But I do love you surely in a better way than he does." He thought. "Yes--really in a better way. I want you to have your own thoughts even when I hold you in my arms." He stretched them towards her. "Lucy, be quick--there's no time for us to talk now--come to me as you came in the spring, and afterwards I will be gentle and explain. I have cared for you since that man died. I cannot live without you," 'No good,' "I thought;" 'she is marrying someone else'; "but I meet you again when all the	Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in	A Room With A View
"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"	Jem Wimble	were thrown into the torrent.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>said Jem, all at once.	finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so	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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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;	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. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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	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. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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 below the foaming torrent, a glance at which seemed to produce vertigo. To stand still seemed to be worse than going on, and taking it to his comfort that what one man could do another might, Don reached the corner, but hesitated again, for there seemed to be no foot-hold whatever. But as he hesitated a great brown hand came round, ready to grasp his firmly; and with this help he made the venture, pressing himself close against the rock and creeping on. He was just in the most perilous part, well out over the torrent, when his left foot slipped, and a horrible chill ran through him, as he felt that he was falling into the chasm below to instant death. He held on with his right hand, and strove to press his breast against the rock, but the effort was vain; his right hand slipped from the crevice in which it was thrust, his right foot glided over the wet moss, and he slipped down, hung for a moment or two over the foaming waters, and then felt himself swung up and on to a broad ledge, upon which Ngati was standing. The Maori took it as a matter of course, signed to him to get up, and passed his hand round the	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. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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	Don Lavington
said the attendant gravely.	No speaker	provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on	clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch	of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he	remember." "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but	somewhat affably. "Dressed as Thursday!" said Syme in meditation. "It doesn't sound a warm costume." "Oh, yes, sir," said the other eagerly, "the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin." "Well, I don't understand anything," said Syme, sighing. "I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember." "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal. CHAPTER XV. THE ACCUSER As Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light	your clothes, sir." "Clothes!" said Syme sardonically. "I have no clothes except these," and he lifted two long strips of his frock-coat in fascinating festoons, and made a movement as if to twirl like a ballet girl. "My master asks me to say," said the attendant, "that there is a fancy dress ball tonight, and that he desires you to put on the costume that I have laid out. Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and some cold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hours before supper." "Cold pheasant is a good thing," said Syme reflectively, "and Burgundy is a spanking good thing. But really I do not want either of them so much as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort of costume you have got laid out for me. Where is it?" The servant lifted off a kind of ottoman a long peacock-blue drapery, rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents. "You're to be dressed as Thursday, sir," said the valet somewhat affably. "Dressed as Thursday!" said Syme in meditation. "It doesn't sound a warm costume." "Oh, yes, sir," said the other eagerly, "the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin." "Well, I don't understand anything," said Syme, sighing. "I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember." "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal. CHAPTER XV. THE ACCUSER As Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness. The vestment itself would alone have suggested the symbol; and Syme felt also how perfectly this pattern of pure white and black expressed the soul of the pale and austere Secretary, with his inhuman veracity and his cold frenzy, which made him so easily make war on the anarchists, and yet so easily pass for one of them. Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man's eyes were still stern. No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question. If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else. For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet who seeks always to make the light in special shapes, to split it up into sun and star. The philosopher may sometimes love the infinite; the poet always loves the finite. For him the great moment is not the creation of light, but the creation of the sun and moon. As	the carriage was carrying him. He saw that they passed the stone gates of what might have been a park, that they began gradually to climb a hill which, while wooded on both sides, was somewhat more orderly than a forest. Then there began to grow upon him, as upon a man slowly waking from a healthy sleep, a pleasure in everything. He felt that the hedges were what hedges should be, living walls; that a hedge is like a human army, disciplined, but all the more alive. He saw high elms behind the hedges, and vaguely thought how happy boys would be climbing there. Then his carriage took a turn of the path, and he saw suddenly and quietly, like a long, low, sunset cloud, a long, low house, mellow in the mild light of sunset. All the six friends compared notes afterwards and quarrelled; but they all agreed that in some unaccountable way the place reminded them of their boyhood. It was either this elm-top or that crooked path, it was either this scrap of orchard or that shape of a window; but each man of them declared that he could remember this place before he could remember his mother. When the carriages eventually rolled up to a large, low, cavernous gateway, another man in the same uniform, but wearing a silver star on the grey breast of his coat, came out to meet them. This impressive person said to the bewildered Syme "Refreshments are provided for you in your room." Syme, under the influence of the same mesmeric sleep of amazement, went up the large oaken stairs after the respectful attendant. He entered a splendid suite of apartments that seemed to be designed specially for him. He walked up to a long mirror with the ordinary instinct of his class, to pull his tie straight or to smooth his hair; and there he saw the frightful figure that he was blood running down his face from where the bough had struck him, his hair standing out like yellow rags of rank grass, his clothes torn into long, wavering tatters. At once the whole enigma sprang up, simply as the question of how he had got there, and how he was to get out again. Exactly at the same moment a man in blue, who had been appointed as his valet, said very solemnly "I have put out your clothes, sir." "Clothes!" said Syme sardonically. "I have no clothes except these," and he lifted two long strips of his frock-coat in fascinating festoons, and made a movement as if to twirl like a ballet girl. "My master asks me to say," said the attendant, "that there is a fancy dress ball tonight, and that he desires you to put on the costume that I have laid out. Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and some cold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hours before supper." "Cold pheasant is a good thing," said Syme reflectively, "and Burgundy is a spanking good thing. But really I do not want either of them so much as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort of costume you have got laid out for me. Where is it?" The servant lifted off a kind of ottoman a long peacock-blue drapery, rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents. "You're to be dressed as Thursday, sir," said the valet somewhat affably. "Dressed as Thursday!" said Syme in meditation. "It doesn't sound a warm costume." "Oh, yes, sir," said the other eagerly, "the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin." "Well, I don't understand anything," said Syme, sighing. "I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember." "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal. CHAPTER XV. THE ACCUSER As Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness. The vestment itself would alone have suggested the symbol; and Syme felt also how perfectly this pattern of pure white and black expressed the soul of the pale and austere Secretary, with his inhuman veracity and his cold frenzy, which made him so easily make war on the anarchists, and yet so easily pass for one of them. Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man's eyes were still stern. No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question. If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else. For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet who seeks always to make the light in special shapes, to split it up into sun and star. The philosopher may sometimes love the infinite; the poet always loves the finite. For him the great moment is not the creation of light, but the creation of the sun and moon. As they descended the broad stairs together they overtook Ratcliffe, who was clad in spring green like a huntsman, and the pattern upon whose garment was a green tangle of trees. For he stood for that third day on which the earth and green things were made, and his square, sensible face, with its not unfriendly cynicism, seemed appropriate enough to it. They were led out of another broad and low gateway into a very large old English garden, full of torches and bonfires, by the broken light of which a vast carnival of people were dancing in motley dress. Syme seemed to see every shape in Nature imitated in some crazy costume. There was a man dressed as a windmill with enormous sails, a man dressed as an elephant, a man dressed as a balloon; the two last, together, seemed to keep the thread of their farcical adventures. Syme even saw, with a queer thrill, one dancer dressed like an enormous hornbill, with a beak twice as big as himself the queer bird which had fixed itself on his fancy like a living question while he was rushing down the long road at the Zoological Gardens. There were a thousand other such objects, however. There was a dancing lamp-post, a dancing apple tree, a dancing ship. One would have thought that the untamable tune of some mad musician had set all the common objects of field and street dancing an eternal jig. And long afterwards, when Syme was middle-aged and at rest, he could never see one of those particular objects a lamppost, or an apple tree, or a windmill without thinking that it was a strayed reveller from that revel of masquerade. On one side of this lawn, alive with dancers, was a sort of green bank, like the terrace in such old-fashioned gardens. Along this, in a kind of crescent, stood seven great chairs, the thrones of the seven days. Gogol and Dr. Bull were already in their seats; the Professor was just mounting to his. Gogol, or Tuesday, had his simplicity well symbolised by a dress designed upon the division of the waters, a dress that separated upon his forehead and fell to his feet, grey and silver, like a sheet of rain. The Professor, whose day was that on which the birds and fishes the ruder forms of life were created, had a dress of dim	like yellow rags of rank grass, his clothes torn into long, wavering tatters. At once the whole enigma sprang up, simply as the question of how he had got there, and how he was to get out again. Exactly at the same moment a man in blue, who had been appointed as his valet, said very solemnly "I have put out your clothes, sir." "Clothes!" said Syme sardonically. "I have no clothes except these," and he lifted two long strips of his frock-coat in fascinating festoons, and made a movement as if to twirl like a ballet girl. "My master asks me to say," said the attendant, "that there is a fancy dress ball tonight, and that he desires you to put on the costume that I have laid out. Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and some cold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hours before supper." "Cold pheasant is a good thing," said Syme reflectively, "and Burgundy is a spanking good thing. But really I do not want either of them so much as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort of costume you have got laid out for me. Where is it?" The servant lifted off a kind of ottoman a long peacock-blue drapery, rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents. "You're to be dressed as Thursday, sir," said the valet somewhat affably. "Dressed as Thursday!" said Syme in meditation. "It doesn't sound a warm costume." "Oh, yes, sir," said the other eagerly, "the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin." "Well, I don't understand anything," said Syme, sighing. "I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember." "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal. CHAPTER XV. THE ACCUSER As Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness. The vestment itself would alone have suggested the symbol; and Syme felt also how perfectly this pattern of pure white and black expressed the soul of the pale and austere Secretary, with his inhuman veracity and his cold frenzy, which made him so easily make war on the anarchists, and yet so easily pass for one of them. Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man's eyes were still stern. No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question. If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else. For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet	The Man Who Was Thursday
"I should never get like that,"	Adela Quested	and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was	kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same	and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad	subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial	it did now. She would see India always as a frieze, never as a spirit, and she assumed that it was a spirit of which Mrs. Moore had had a glimpse. And sure enough they did drive away from the club in a few minutes, and they did dress, and to dinner came Miss Derek and the McBrydes, and the menu was: Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for,"	him asked too?" "Mrs. Moore says he is so nice." "Very well, Miss Quested. Will Thursday suit you?" "Indeed it will, and that morning we go to this Indian lady's. All the nice things are coming Thursday." "I won't ask the City Magistrate to bring you. I know he'll be busy at that time." "Yes, Ronny is always hard-worked," she replied, contemplating the hills. How lovely they suddenly were! But she couldn't touch them. In front, like a shutter, fell a vision of her married life. She and Ronny would look into the club like this every evening, then drive home to dress; they would see the Lesleys and the Callendars and the Turtons and the Burtons, and invite them and be invited by them, while the true India slid by unnoticed. Colour would remain the pageant of birds in the early morning, brown bodies, white turbans, idols whose flesh was scarlet or blue and movement would remain as long as there were crowds in the bazaar and bathers in the tanks. Perched up on the seat of a dogcart, she would see them. But the force that lies behind colour and movement would escape her even more effectually than it did now. She would see India always as a frieze, never as a spirit, and she assumed that it was a spirit of which Mrs. Moore had had a glimpse. And sure enough they did drive away from the club in a few minutes, and they did dress, and to dinner came Miss Derek and the McBrydes, and the menu was: Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for," said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde it was she who had been the nurse ceased not to exclaim, "Oh, Nancy, how topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look at things like that." Mr. McBryde did not speak much; he seemed nice. When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, there was another interview between mother and son. He wanted her advice and support while resenting interference. "Does Adela talk to you much?" he began. "I'm so driven with work, I don't see her as much as I hoped, but I hope she finds things comfortable." "Adela and I talk mostly about India. Dear, since you mention it, you're quite right you ought to be more alone with her than you are." "Yes, perhaps, but then people'ld gossip." "Well, they must gossip sometime! Let them gossip." "People are so odd out here, and it's not like home one's always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding followed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort." "I don't think Adela	the two new ladies from England had been a great success, and that their politeness in wishing to be Mrs. Bhattacharya's guests had pleased not only her but all Indians who heard of it. It pleased Mr. Fielding also. He scarcely knew the two new ladies, still he decided to tell them what pleasure they had given by their friendliness. He found the younger of them alone. She was looking through a nick in the cactus hedge at the distant Marabar Hills, which had crept near, as was their custom at sunset; if the sunset had lasted long enough, they would have reached the town, but it was swift, being tropical. He gave her his information, and she was so much pleased and thanked him so heartily that he asked her and the other lady to tea. "I'ld like to come very much indeed, and so would Mrs. Moore, I know." "I'm rather a hermit, you know." "Much the best thing to be in this place." "Owing to my work and so on, I don't get up much to the club." "I know, I know, and we never get down from it. I envy you being with Indians." "Do you care to meet one or two?" "Very, very much indeed; it's what I long for. This party to-day makes me so angry and miserable. I think my countrymen out here must be mad. Fancy inviting guests and not treating them properly! You and Mr. Turton and perhaps Mr. McBryde are the only people who showed any common politeness. The rest make me perfectly ashamed, and it's got worse and worse." It had. The Englishmen had intended to play up better, but had been prevented from doing so by their women folk, whom they had to attend, provide with tea, advise about dogs, etc. When tennis began, the barrier grew impenetrable. It had been hoped to have some sets between East and West, but this was forgotten, and the courts were monopolized by the usual club couples. Fielding resented it too, but did not say so to the girl, for he found something theoretical in her outburst. Did she care about Indian music? he enquired; there was an old professor down at the College, who sang. "Oh, just what we wanted to hear. And do you know Doctor Aziz?" "I know all about him. I don't know him. Would you like him asked too?" "Mrs. Moore says he is so nice." "Very well, Miss Quested. Will Thursday suit you?" "Indeed it will, and that morning we go to this Indian lady's. All the nice things are coming Thursday." "I won't ask the City Magistrate to bring you. I know he'll be busy at that time." "Yes, Ronny is always hard-worked," she replied, contemplating the hills. How lovely they suddenly were! But she couldn't touch them. In front, like a shutter, fell a vision of her married life. She and Ronny would look into the club like this every evening, then drive home to dress; they would see the Lesleys and the Callendars and the Turtons and the Burtons, and invite them and be invited by them, while the true India slid by unnoticed. Colour would remain the pageant of birds in the early morning, brown bodies, white turbans, idols whose flesh was scarlet or blue and movement would remain as long as there were crowds in the bazaar and bathers in the tanks. Perched up on the seat of a dogcart, she would see them. But the force that lies behind colour and movement would escape her even more effectually than it did now. She would see India always as a frieze, never as a spirit, and she assumed that it was a spirit of which Mrs. Moore had had a glimpse. And sure enough they did drive away from the club in a few minutes, and they did dress, and to dinner came Miss Derek and the McBrydes, and the menu was: Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for," said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde it was she who had been the nurse ceased not to exclaim, "Oh, Nancy, how topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look at things like that." Mr. McBryde did not speak much; he seemed nice. When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, there was another interview between mother and son. He wanted her advice and support while resenting interference. "Does Adela talk to you much?" he began. "I'm so driven with work, I don't see her as much as I hoped, but I hope she finds things comfortable." "Adela and I talk mostly about India. Dear, since you mention it, you're quite right you ought to be more alone with her than you are." "Yes, perhaps, but then people'ld gossip." "Well, they must gossip sometime! Let them gossip." "People are so odd out here, and it's not like home one's always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding followed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort." "I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual." "I know, that's so remarkable about her," he said thoughtfully. Mrs. Moore thought him rather absurd. Accustomed to the privacy of London, she could not realize that India, seemingly so mysterious, contains none, and that consequently the conventions have greater force. "I suppose nothing's on her mind," he continued. "Ask her, ask her yourself, my dear boy." "Probably she's heard tales of the heat, but of course I should pack her off to the Hills every April I'm not one to keep a wife grilling in the Plains." "Oh, it wouldn't be the weather." "There's nothing in India but the weather, my dear mother; it's the Alpha and Omega of the whole affair." "Yes, as Mr. McBryde was saying, but it's much more the Anglo-Indians themselves who are likely to get on Adela's nerves. She doesn't think they behave pleasantly to Indians, you see." "What did I tell you?" he exclaimed, losing his gentle manner. "I knew it last week. Oh, how like a woman to worry over a side-issue!" She forgot about Adela in her surprise. "A side-issue, a side-issue?" she repeated. "How can it be that?" "We're not out here for the purpose of behaving pleasantly!" "What do you mean?" "What I say. We're out here to do justice and keep the peace. Them's my sentiments. India isn't a drawing-room." "Your sentiments are those of a god," she said quietly, but it was his manner rather than his sentiments that annoyed her. Trying to recover his temper, he said, "India likes gods." "And Englishmen like posing as gods." "There's no point in all this. Here we are, and we're going to stop, and the country's got to put up with us, gods or no gods. Oh, look here," he broke out, rather pathetically, "what do you and Adela want me to do? Go against my class, against all the people I respect and admire out here? Lose such power as I have for doing good in this country because my behaviour isn't pleasant? You neither of you understand what work is, or you 'ld never talk such eyewash. I hate talking like this, but one must occasionally. It's morbidly sensitive to go on as Adela and you do. I noticed you both at the club to-day after the Burra Sahib had been at all that trouble to amuse	in the bazaar and bathers in the tanks. Perched up on the seat of a dogcart, she would see them. But the force that lies behind colour and movement would escape her even more effectually than it did now. She would see India always as a frieze, never as a spirit, and she assumed that it was a spirit of which Mrs. Moore had had a glimpse. And sure enough they did drive away from the club in a few minutes, and they did dress, and to dinner came Miss Derek and the McBrydes, and the menu was: Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for," said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde it was she who had been the nurse ceased not to exclaim, "Oh, Nancy, how topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look at things like that." Mr. McBryde did not speak much; he seemed nice. When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, there was another interview between mother and son. He wanted her advice and support while resenting interference. "Does Adela talk to you much?" he began. "I'm so	A Passage To India
asked Gregory, wondering.	No speaker	the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously,	safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before	ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have	Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to	to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the	if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you	of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?' He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face." You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' "I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion's voice." Why, then, dress up as an _anarchist_, you fool!' "he roared so that the room shook." Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.' "And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and by God! they would let me wheel their perambulators." Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes. "You took me in," he said. "It is really a smart dodge." Then after a pause he added "What do you call this tremendous President of yours?" "We generally call him Sunday," replied Gregory with simplicity. "You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor." He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment. "I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday." The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful	sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes. "You took me in," he said. "It is really a smart dodge." Then after a pause he added "What do you call this tremendous President of yours?" "We generally call him Sunday," replied Gregory with simplicity. "You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor." He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment. "I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are	The Man Who Was Thursday
Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.	No speaker	Mas' Don out; and gone."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"I say, Mas' Don, though,	them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being	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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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." "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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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	"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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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	he said. "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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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 mistook." Jem became silent, and for a	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," he said. "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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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 mistook." Jem became silent, and for a long time his fellow-prisoner felt not the slightest inclination to speak. His thoughts were busy over their attempted escape, and the risky task of descending by the rope. Then he thought again of home, and wondered what they would think of him, feeling sure that they would believe him to have behaved badly. His heart ached as he recalled all the past, and how much his present position was due to his own folly and discontent, while, at the end of every scene he evoked, came the thought that no matter how he repented, it was too late--too late! "How are you now, Jem?" he asked once or twice, as he tried to pierce the utter darkness; but there was no answer, and at last he relieved the weariness of his position by moving close up to the wall, so as to lean his back against it, and in this position, despite all his trouble, his head drooped forward till his chin rested upon his chest, and he fell fast asleep for what seemed to him only a few minutes, when he started into wakefulness on feeling himself roughly shaken. "Rouse up, my lad, sharp!" And looking wonderingly about him, he clapped one hand over his eyes to keep off the glare of an open lanthorn. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. ON BOARD. It was a strange experience, and half asleep and confused, Don could hardly make out whether he was one of the captives of the press-gang, or a prisoner being conveyed to gaol in consequence of Mike Bannock's charge. All seemed to be darkness, and the busy gang of armed men about him worked in a silent, furtive way, hurrying their prisoners, of whom, as they all stood together in a kind of yard behind some great gates, there seemed to be about a dozen, some injured, some angry and scowling, and full of complaints and threats now that they were about to be conveyed away; but every angry remonstrance was met by one more severe, and sometimes accompanied by a tap from the butt of a pistol, or a blow given with the hilt or flat of a cutlass. "This here's lively, Mas' Don," said Jem, as he stood beside his companion in misfortune. "I want to speak to the principal officer," said Don, excitedly. "We must not let them drive us off as if we were sheep." "Will you	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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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 mistook." Jem became silent, and for a long time his fellow-prisoner felt not the slightest inclination to speak. His thoughts were busy over their attempted escape, and the risky task of descending by the rope. Then he thought again of home, and wondered what they would think of him, feeling sure that they would believe him to have behaved badly. His heart ached as he recalled all the past, and how much his present position was due to his own folly and	Don Lavington
"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."	Brenda	He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't	about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you	lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North	or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all	came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why	cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I	their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said	cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going	A Handful Of Dust
"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."	Dr. Aziz	ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny	for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned;	as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble	Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more."	who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good a time as he could, and if they came late or left early that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif embraced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin	there a path off the top?" "Millions of paths, my dear fellow." Fielding could see nothing but the crease. Everywhere else the glaring granite plunged into the earth. "But you saw them get down safe?" "Yes, yes, she and Miss Derek, and go off in the car." "Then the guide came back to you?" "Exactly. Got a cigarette?" "I hope she wasn't ill," pursued the Englishman. The crease continued as a nullah across the plain, the water draining off this way towards the Ganges. "She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend her." "Yes, that sounds sense." "I see you're worrying, let's talk of other things," he said kindly. "Miss Quested was always to do what she wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worrying on my account, but really I don't mind, I never notice trifles." "I do worry on your account. I consider they have been impolite!" said Fielding, lowering his voice. "She had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss Derek had no right to abet her." So touchy as a rule, Aziz was unassailable. The wings that uplifted him did not falter, because he was a Mogul emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good a time as he could, and if they came late or left early that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif embraced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin from the scientific north which troubled the scenery four times a day. As it left the Marabars, their nasty little cosmos disappeared, and gave place to the Marabars seen from a distance, finite and rather romantic. The train halted once under a pump, to drench the stock of coal in its tender. Then it caught sight of the main line in the distance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails were scorching now), and clanked to a stand-still. Chandrapore, Chandrapore! The expedition was over. And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and prepared to enter ordinary life, suddenly the long drawn strangeness of the morning snapped. Mr. Haq, the Inspector of Police, flung open the door of their carriage and said in shrill tones: "Dr. Aziz, it is my highly painful duty to arrest you." "Hullo, some mistake," said Fielding, at once taking charge of the situation. "Sir, they are my instructions. I know nothing." "On what charge do you arrest him?" "I am under instructions not to say." "Don't answer me like that. Produce your warrant." "Sir, excuse me, no warrant is required under these particular circumstances. Refer	racial problem can take subtle forms. In their case it had induced a sort of jealousy, a mutual suspicion. He tried to goad her enthusiasm; she scarcely spoke. Aziz fetched them to breakfast. "It is quite natural about Miss Quested," he remarked, for he had been working the incident a little in his mind, to get rid of its roughnesses. "We were having an interesting talk with our guide, then the car was seen, so she decided to go down to her friend." Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies. "She ran to her friend, I to mine," he went on, smiling. "And now I am with my friends and they are with me and each other, which is happiness." Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. They didn't want to. Fielding thought with hostility, "I knew these women would make trouble," and Mrs. Moore thought, "This man, having missed the train, tries to blame us" "; but her thoughts were feeble; since her faintness in the cave she was sunk in apathy and cynicism. The wonderful India of her opening weeks, with its cool nights and acceptable hints of infinity, had vanished. Fielding ran up to see one cave. He wasn't impressed. Then they got on the elephant and the picnic began to unwind out of the corridor and escaped under the precipice towards the railway station, pursued by stabs of hot air. They came to the place where he had quitted the car. A disagreeable thought now struck him, and he said: "Aziz, exactly where and how did you leave Miss Quested?" "Up there." He indicated the Kawa Dol cheerfully. "But how" A gully, or rather a crease, showed among the rocks at this place; it was scurfy with cactuses. "I suppose the guide helped her." "Oh, rather, most helpful." "Is there a path off the top?" "Millions of paths, my dear fellow." Fielding could see nothing but the crease. Everywhere else the glaring granite plunged into the earth. "But you saw them get down safe?" "Yes, yes, she and Miss Derek, and go off in the car." "Then the guide came back to you?" "Exactly. Got a cigarette?" "I hope she wasn't ill," pursued the Englishman. The crease continued as a nullah across the plain, the water draining off this way towards the Ganges. "She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend her." "Yes, that sounds sense." "I see you're worrying, let's talk of other things," he said kindly. "Miss Quested was always to do what she wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worrying on my account, but really I don't mind, I never notice trifles." "I do worry on your account. I consider they have been impolite!" said Fielding, lowering his voice. "She had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss Derek had no right to abet her." So touchy as a rule, Aziz was unassailable. The wings that uplifted him did not falter, because he was a Mogul emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good a time as he could, and if they came late or left early that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif embraced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin from the scientific north which troubled the scenery four times a day. As it left the Marabars, their nasty little cosmos disappeared, and gave place to the Marabars seen from a distance, finite and rather romantic. The train halted once under a pump, to drench the stock of coal in its tender. Then it caught sight of the main line in the distance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails were scorching now), and clanked to a stand-still. Chandrapore, Chandrapore! The expedition was over. And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and prepared to enter ordinary life, suddenly the long drawn strangeness of the morning snapped. Mr. Haq, the Inspector of Police, flung open the door of their carriage and said in shrill tones: "Dr. Aziz, it is my highly painful duty to arrest you." "Hullo, some mistake," said Fielding, at once taking charge of the situation. "Sir, they are my instructions. I know nothing." "On what charge do you arrest him?" "I am under instructions not to say." "Don't answer me like that. Produce your warrant." "Sir, excuse me, no warrant is required under these particular circumstances. Refer to Mr. McBryde." "Very well, so we will. Come along, Aziz, old man; nothing to fuss about, some blunder." "Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness." The young man sobbed his first sound and tried to escape out of the opposite door on to the line. "That will compel me to use force," Mr. Haq wailed. "Oh, for God's sake" cried Fielding, his own nerves breaking under the contagion, and pulled him back before a scandal started, and shook him like a baby. A second later, and he would have been out, whistles blowing, a man-hunt. . . . "Dear fellow, we're coming to McBryde together, and enquire what's gone wrong he's a decent fellow, it's all unintentional . . . he'll apologize. Never, never act the criminal." "My children and my name!" he gasped, his wings broken. "Nothing of the sort. Put your hat straight and take my arm. I'll see you through." "Ah, thank God, he comes," the Inspector exclaimed. They emerged into the midday heat, arm in arm. The station was seething. Passengers and porters rushed out of every recess, many Government servants, more police. Ronny escorted Mrs. Moore. Mohammed Latif began wailing. And before they could make their way through the chaos, Fielding was called off by the authoritative tones of Mr. Turton, and Aziz went on to prison alone. CHAPTER XVII The Collector had watched the arrest from the interior of the waiting-room, and throwing open its perforated doors of zinc, he was now revealed like a god in a shrine. When Fielding entered the doors clapped to, and were guarded by a servant, while a punkah, to mark the importance of the moment, flapped dirty petticoats over their heads. The Collector could not speak at first. His face was white, fanatical, and rather beautiful the expression that all English faces were to wear at Chandrapore for many days. Always brave and unselfish, he was now fused by some white and generous heat; he would have killed himself, obviously, if he had thought it right to do so. He spoke at last. "The worst thing in my whole career has happened," he said. "Miss Quested has been insulted in one of the Marabar caves." "Oh no, oh no, no," gasped the other, feeling sickish. "She escaped by God's grace." "Oh no, no, but not Aziz . . . not Aziz	are with me and each other, which is happiness." Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. They didn't want to. Fielding thought with hostility, "I knew these women would make trouble," and Mrs. Moore thought, "This man, having missed the train, tries to blame us" "; but her thoughts were feeble; since her faintness in the cave she was sunk in apathy and cynicism. The wonderful India of her opening weeks, with its cool nights and acceptable hints of infinity, had vanished. Fielding ran up to see one cave. He wasn't impressed. Then they got on the elephant and the picnic began to unwind out of the corridor and escaped under the precipice towards the railway station, pursued by stabs of hot air. They came to the place where he had quitted the car. A disagreeable thought now struck him, and he said: "Aziz, exactly where and how did you leave Miss Quested?" "Up there." He indicated the Kawa Dol cheerfully. "But how" A gully, or rather a crease, showed among the rocks at this place; it was scurfy with cactuses. "I suppose the guide helped her." "Oh, rather, most helpful." "Is there a path off the top?" "Millions of paths, my dear fellow." Fielding could see nothing but the crease. Everywhere else the glaring granite plunged into the earth. "But you saw them get down safe?" "Yes, yes, she and Miss Derek, and go off in the car." "Then the guide came back to you?" "Exactly. Got a cigarette?" "I hope she wasn't ill," pursued the Englishman. The crease continued as a nullah across the plain, the water draining off this way towards the Ganges. "She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend her." "Yes, that sounds sense." "I see you're worrying, let's talk of other things," he said kindly. "Miss Quested was always to do what she wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worrying on my account, but really I don't mind, I never notice trifles." "I do worry on your account. I consider they have been impolite!" said Fielding, lowering his voice. "She had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss Derek had no right to abet her." So touchy as a rule, Aziz was unassailable. The wings that uplifted him did not falter, because he was a Mogul emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good a time as he could, and if they came late or left early that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif embraced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin from the scientific north which troubled the scenery four times a day. As it left the Marabars, their nasty little cosmos disappeared, and gave place to the Marabars seen from a distance, finite and rather romantic. The train halted once under a pump, to drench the stock of coal in its tender. Then it caught sight of the main line in the distance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails were scorching now), and clanked to a stand-still. Chandrapore, Chandrapore! The expedition was over. And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and	A Passage To India
said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.	No speaker	invent that?" "I suppose not,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"But one loses faith in	wouldn t think I d invent that?" "I suppose not,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"But one loses faith in everything after this." "We thought	"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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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." "You are very fond of her, then." "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	for her, said, "Go away." Henry came nearer. He repeated, "Margaret, you look upset again. My dear, give me the keys. What are you doing with Helen?" "Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all." "Manage what?" He stretched out his hand for the keys. She might have obeyed if it had not been for the doctor. "Stop that at least," she said piteously; the doctor had turned back, and was questioning the driver of Helen s cab. A new feeling came over her; she was fighting for women against men. She did not care about rights, but if men came into Howards End, it should be over her body. "Come, this is an odd beginning," said her husband. The doctor came forward now, and whispered two words to Mr. Wilcox--the scandal was out. Sincerely horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth. "I cannot help it," said Margaret. "Do wait. It s not my fault. Please all four of you go away now." Now the flyman was whispering to Crane. "We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox," said the young doctor. "Could you go in and persuade your sister to come out?" "On what grounds?" said Margaret, suddenly looking him straight in the eyes. Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured something about a nervous breakdown. "I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort. You are not qualified to attend my sister, Mr. Mansbridge. If we require your services, we will let you know." "I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish," he retorted. "You could, but you have not. You are, therefore, not qualified to attend my sister." "Come, come, Margaret!" said Henry, never raising his eyes. "This is a terrible business, an appalling business. It s doctor s orders. Open the door." "Forgive me, but I will not." "I don t agree." Margaret was silent. "This business is as broad as it s long," contributed the doctor. "We had better all work together. You need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you." "Quite so," said Henry. "I do not need you in the least," said Margaret. The two men looked at 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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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." "You are very fond of her, then." "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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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." "You are very fond of her, then." "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	Howards End
"Yes, I was."	Thomas Gradgrind	me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly,	You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will	him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted	on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he	in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair which all shook at once. "Now, it's a remarkable fact, sir, that	head to foot, "the honour of knowing _you_, but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right." "And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think," said Cupid. "Kidderminster, stow that!" said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance. "Missed his tip." "Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair which all shook at once. "Now, it's a remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man deeper, to know that his daughter knew of his being goosed, than to go through with it." "Good!" interrupted Mr. Bounderby. "This is good, Gradgrind! A man so fond of his daughter, that he runs away from her! This is devilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you what, young man. I haven't always occupied my present station of life. I know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran away from _me_." E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to hear it. "Very well," said Bounderby. "I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There's no family pride about me, there's no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she	It's more than a mile off." Before Mr. Bounderby could reply, a young man appeared at the door, and introducing himself with the words, "By your leaves, gentlemen!" walked in with his hands in his pockets. His face, close-shaven, thin, and sallow, was shaded by a great quantity of dark hair, brushed into a roll all round his head, and parted up the centre. His legs were very robust, but shorter than legs of good proportions should have been. His chest and back were as much too broad, as his legs were too short. He was dressed in a Newmarket coat and tight-fitting trousers; wore a shawl round his neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orange-peel, horses' provender, and sawdust; and looked a most remarkable sort of Centaur, compounded of the stable and the play-house. Where the one began, and the other ended, nobody could have told with any precision. This gentleman was mentioned in the bills of the day as Mr. E. W. B. Childers, so justly celebrated for his daring vaulting act as the Wild Huntsman of the North American Prairies; in which popular performance, a diminutive boy with an old face, who now accompanied him, assisted as his infant son: being carried upside down over his father's shoulder, by one foot, and held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, in the palm of his father's hand, according to the violent paternal manner in which wild huntsmen may be observed to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls, wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal part of the spectators; but in private, where his characteristics were a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy. "By your leaves, gentlemen," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. "It was you, I believe, that were wishing to see Jupe!" "It was," said Mr. Gradgrind. "His daughter has gone to fetch him, but I can't wait; therefore, if you please, I will leave a message for him with you." "You see, my friend," Mr. Bounderby put in, "we are the kind of people who know the value of time, and you are the kind of people who don't know the value of time." "I have not," retorted Mr. Childers, after surveying him from head to foot, "the honour of knowing _you_, but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right." "And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think," said Cupid. "Kidderminster, stow that!" said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance. "Missed his tip." "Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair which all shook at once. "Now, it's a remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man deeper, to know that his daughter knew of his being goosed, than to go through with it." "Good!" interrupted Mr. Bounderby. "This is good, Gradgrind! A man so fond of his daughter, that he runs away from her! This is devilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you what, young man. I haven't always occupied my present station of life. I know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran away from _me_." E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to hear it. "Very well," said Bounderby. "I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There's no family pride about me, there's no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that's what he is, in English." "It's all the same to me what he is or what he is not, whether in English or whether in French," retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. "I am telling your friend what's the fact; if you don't like to hear it, you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own building at least," remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony. "Don't give it mouth in this building, till you're called upon. You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?" "Perhaps so," replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing. "Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?" said Childers. "Because this isn't a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!" Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. "Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind, "why will she never believe it of him?" "Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her," said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the male members of Sleary's company, and was understood to express, that they were always on horseback. "Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her," said Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he looked up from the empty box. "Now, he leaves her without anything to take to." "It is creditable to you, who have never been apprenticed, to express that opinion," returned Mr. Gradgrind, approvingly. "_I_ never apprenticed? I was apprenticed when	may be observed to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls, wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal part of the spectators; but in private, where his characteristics were a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy. "By your leaves, gentlemen," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. "It was you, I believe, that were wishing to see Jupe!" "It was," said Mr. Gradgrind. "His daughter has gone to fetch him, but I can't wait; therefore, if you please, I will leave a message for him with you." "You see, my friend," Mr. Bounderby put in, "we are the kind of people who know the value of time, and you are the kind of people who don't know the value of time." "I have not," retorted Mr. Childers, after surveying him from head to foot, "the honour of knowing _you_, but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right." "And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think," said Cupid. "Kidderminster, stow that!" said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance. "Missed his tip." "Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair which all shook at once. "Now, it's a remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man deeper, to know that his daughter knew of his being goosed, than to go through with it." "Good!" interrupted Mr. Bounderby. "This is good, Gradgrind! A man so fond of his daughter, that he runs away from her! This is devilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you what, young man. I haven't always occupied my present station of life. I know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran away from _me_." E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to hear it. "Very well," said Bounderby. "I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There's no family pride about me, there's no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that's what he is, in English." "It's all the same to me what he is or what he is not, whether in English or whether in French," retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. "I am telling your friend what's the fact; if you don't like to hear it, you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own building at least," remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony. "Don't give it mouth in this building, till you're called upon. You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?" "Perhaps so," replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing. "Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?" said Childers. "Because this isn't a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!" Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. "Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an	Hard Times
"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"	Katharine Hilbery	"Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to	taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said	of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind.	"What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the	was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry. "What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his	made it possible for me to get through, I remember." Sitting down, he drew off his light yellow gloves, and began slapping his knees with them. His vitality was pleasant, Mary thought, although he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh. His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken. "We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery," said Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry. "What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s	had walked that morning, and the sparrows silent in the bare trees. But the lights in her own building soon cheered her; all these different states of mind were submerged in the deep flood of desires, thoughts, perceptions, antagonisms, which washed perpetually at the base of her being, to rise into prominence in turn when the conditions of the upper world were favorable. She put off the hour of clear thought until Christmas, saying to herself, as she lit her fire, that it is impossible to think anything out in London; and, no doubt, Ralph wouldn t come at Christmas, and she would take long walks into the heart of the country, and decide this question and all the others that puzzled her. Meanwhile, she thought, drawing her feet up on to the fender, life was full of complexity; life was a thing one must love to the last fiber of it. She had sat there for five minutes or so, and her thoughts had had time to grow dim, when there came a ring at her bell. Her eye brightened; she felt immediately convinced that Ralph had come to visit her. Accordingly, she waited a moment before opening the door; she wanted to feel her hands secure upon the reins of all the troublesome emotions which the sight of Ralph would certainly arouse. She composed herself unnecessarily, however, for she had to admit, not Ralph, but Katharine and William Rodney. Her first impression was that they were both extremely well dressed. She felt herself shabby and slovenly beside them, and did not know how she should entertain them, nor could she guess why they had come. She had heard nothing of their engagement. But after the first disappointment, she was pleased, for she felt instantly that Katharine was a personality, and, moreover, she need not now exercise her self-control. "We were passing and saw a light in your window, so we came up," Katharine explained, standing and looking very tall and distinguished and rather absent-minded. "We have been to see some pictures," said William. "Oh, dear," he exclaimed, looking about him, "this room reminds me of one of the worst hours in my existence when I read a paper, and you all sat round and jeered at me. Katharine was the worst. I could feel her gloating over every mistake I made. Miss Datchet was kind. Miss Datchet just made it possible for me to get through, I remember." Sitting down, he drew off his light yellow gloves, and began slapping his knees with them. His vitality was pleasant, Mary thought, although he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh. His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken. "We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery," said Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry. "What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble. "I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?" she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out	entertain them, nor could she guess why they had come. She had heard nothing of their engagement. But after the first disappointment, she was pleased, for she felt instantly that Katharine was a personality, and, moreover, she need not now exercise her self-control. "We were passing and saw a light in your window, so we came up," Katharine explained, standing and looking very tall and distinguished and rather absent-minded. "We have been to see some pictures," said William. "Oh, dear," he exclaimed, looking about him, "this room reminds me of one of the worst hours in my existence when I read a paper, and you all sat round and jeered at me. Katharine was the worst. I could feel her gloating over every mistake I made. Miss Datchet was kind. Miss Datchet just made it possible for me to get through, I remember." Sitting down, he drew off his light yellow gloves, and began slapping his knees with them. His vitality was pleasant, Mary thought, although he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh. His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken. "We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery," said Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry. "What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity	Night And Day
"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"	Hercule Poirot	Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I	he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We	with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find	by saying with a slight effort: "I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?" Poirot bent his head. "It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That	to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family?" "My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure." "He does, does he? That is very interesting very interesting," murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?" A faint cloud passed over John's face. "I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are." The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort: "I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?" Poirot bent his head. "It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all." John looked perplexed. "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast." Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no	told him from the beginning that this obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day. "Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. "You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?" Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung back to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much. Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work, sending telegrams one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard writing notices for the papers, and generally occupying himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails. "May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your investigations point to my mother having died a natural death or or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?" "I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family?" "My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure." "He does, does he? That is very interesting very interesting," murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?" A faint cloud passed over John's face. "I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are." The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort: "I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?" Poirot bent his head. "It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all." John looked perplexed. "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast." Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy. I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man. But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all. And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She	taken her own life? I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own words distracted me. "Come," he said, "now to examine the coffee-cups!" "My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we know about the cocoa?" "Oh, _l l !_ That miserable cocoa!" cried Poirot flippantly. He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible taste. "And, anyway," I said, with increasing coldness, "as Mrs. Inglethorp took her coffee upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect to find, unless you consider it likely that we shall discover a packet of strychnine on the coffee tray!" Poirot was sobered at once. "Come, come, my friend," he said, slipping his arms through mine. "_Ne vous f chez pas!_ Allow me to interest myself in my coffee-cups, and I will respect your cocoa. There! Is it a bargain?" He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we went together to the drawing-room, where the coffee-cups and tray remained undisturbed as we had left them. Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listening very carefully, and verifying the position of the various cups. "So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray and poured out. Yes. Then she came across to the window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Here are the three cups. And the cup on the mantelpiece, half drunk, that would be Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's. And the one on the tray?" "John Cavendish's. I saw him put it down there." "Good. One, two, three, four, five but where, then, is the cup of Mr. Inglethorp?" "He does not take coffee." "Then all are accounted for. One moment, my friend." With infinite care, he took a drop or two from the grounds in each cup, sealing them up in separate test tubes, tasting each in turn as he did so. His physiognomy underwent a curious change. An expression gathered there that I can only describe as half puzzled, and half relieved. "_Bien!_" he said at last. "It is evident! I had an idea but clearly I was mistaken. Yes, altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But no matter!" And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was that was worrying him from his mind. I could have told him from the beginning that this obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day. "Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. "You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?" Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung back to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much. Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work, sending telegrams one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard writing notices for the papers, and generally occupying himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails. "May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your investigations point to my mother having died a natural death or or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?" "I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family?" "My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure." "He does, does he? That is very interesting very interesting," murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?" A faint cloud passed over John's face. "I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are." The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort: "I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?" Poirot bent his head. "It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all." John looked perplexed. "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast." Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy. I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man. But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all. And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly: "Yes, I've got the most beastly headache." "Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot solicitously. "It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the _mal de t te_." He jumped up and took her cup. "No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs. "No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?" "No, I never take it in coffee." "_Sacr !_" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup. Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted _my_ attention. In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared. "Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John. I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night before. John rose immediately. "Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer," he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?" We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot: "There will be an inquest then?" Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused. "What is it? You are not attending to what I say." "It is true, my friend. I am much worried." "Why?" "Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee." "What? You cannot be serious?" "But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right." "What instinct?" "The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. _Chut!_ no more now!" We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us. Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained	papers, and generally occupying himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails. "May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your investigations point to my mother having died a natural death or or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?" "I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family?" "My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure." "He does, does he? That is very interesting very interesting," murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?" A faint cloud passed over John's face. "I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are." The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort: "I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?" Poirot bent his head. "It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all." John looked perplexed. "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast." Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy. I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man. But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all. And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly: "Yes, I've got the	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"	Josiah Bounderby	of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en	unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln;	Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard	his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be	lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!" In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone	gone home, many's the time, and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha' dun 't not once, not twice twenty time!" Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone. "From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th' brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction." "I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!" In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people. "I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say" "This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If I do her any hurt, sir, there's	that, beforehand." "No, sir, sure I ha' not coom for nowt o' th' kind." Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably surprised, notwithstanding his previous strong conviction. "Very well," he returned. "You're a steady Hand, and I was not mistaken. Now, let me hear what it's all about. As it's not that, let me hear what it is. What have you got to say? Out with it, lad!" Stephen happened to glance towards Mrs. Sparsit. "I can go, Mr. Bounderby, if you wish it," said that self-sacrificing lady, making a feint of taking her foot out of the stirrup. Mr. Bounderby stayed her, by holding a mouthful of chop in suspension before swallowing it, and putting out his left hand. Then, withdrawing his hand and swallowing his mouthful of chop, he said to Stephen: "Now you know, this good lady is a born lady, a high lady. You are not to suppose because she keeps my house for me, that she hasn't been very high up the tree ah, up at the top of the tree! Now, if you have got anything to say that can't be said before a born lady, this lady will leave the room. If what you have got to say _can_ be said before a born lady, this lady will stay where she is." "Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say, not fitten for a born lady to year, sin' I were born mysen'," was the reply, accompanied with a slight flush. "Very well," said Mr. Bounderby, pushing away his plate, and leaning back. "Fire away!" "I ha' coom," Stephen began, raising his eyes from the floor, after a moment's consideration, "to ask yo yor advice. I need 't overmuch. I were married on Eas'r Monday nineteen year sin, long and dree. She were a young lass pretty enow wi' good accounts of herseln. Well! She went bad soon. Not along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind husband to her." "I have heard all this before," said Mr. Bounderby. "She took to drinking, left off working, sold the furniture, pawned the clothes, and played old Gooseberry." "I were patient wi' her." (" "The more fool you, I think," said Mr. Bounderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.) "I were very patient wi' her. I tried to wean her fra 't ower and ower agen. I tried this, I tried that, I tried t'other. I ha' gone home, many's the time, and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha' dun 't not once, not twice twenty time!" Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone. "From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th' brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction." "I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!" In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people. "I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say" "This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I flee from her, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I was to live wi' her an' not marry her saying such a thing could be, which it never could or would, an' her so good there's a law to punish me, in every innocent child belonging to me?" "Of course there is." "Now, a' God's name," said Stephen Blackpool, "show me the law to help me!" "Hem! There's a sanctity in this relation of life," said Mr. Bounderby, "and and it must be kept up." "No no, dunnot say that, sir. 'Tan't kep' up that way. Not that way. 'Tis kep' down that way. I'm a weaver, I were in a fact'ry when a chilt, but I ha' gotten een to see wi' and eern to year wi'. I read in th' papers every 'Sizes, every Sessions and you read too I know it! with dismay how th' supposed unpossibility o' ever getting unchained from one another, at any price, on any terms, brings blood upon this land, and brings many common married fok to battle, murder, and sudden death. Let us ha' this, right understood. Mine's a grievous case, an' I want if yo will be so good t' know the law that helps me." "Now, I tell you what!" said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets. "There _is_ such a law." Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, and never wandering in his attention, gave a nod. "But it's not for you at all. It costs money. It costs a mint of money." "How much might that be?" Stephen calmly asked. "Why, you'd have to go to Doctors' Commons with a suit, and you'd have to go to a court of Common Law with a suit, and you'd have to go to the House of Lords with a suit, and you'd have to get an Act of Parliament to enable you to marry again, and it would cost you (if it was a case of very plain sailing), I suppose from a thousand to fifteen hundred pound," said Mr. Bounderby. "Perhaps twice the money." "There's no other law?" "Certainly not." "Why then, sir," said Stephen, turning white, and motioning with that right hand of his,	netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction." "I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!" In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people. "I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say" "This	Hard Times
"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."	Brett Ashley	Couldn't we just live together?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"I stand it now." "That	"Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my	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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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	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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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	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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "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	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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "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.	she was, perhaps, a little--" She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. "I'll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is tr s, tr s gentille. She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see." "They did not leave any word?" "Yes. They said they would be back in an hour." "Send them up when they come." "Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is some one. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu'une, quelqu'une!" The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris race-courses. Her life-work lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great pride 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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "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	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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "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	The Sun Also Rises
"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"	Alice	any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't	wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to	down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice	Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"	to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the	as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have	get to," said the Cat. "I don't much care where--" said Alice. "Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat. "--so long as I get _somewhere_," Alice added as an explanation. "Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough." Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. "What sort of people live about here?" "In _that_ direction," the Cat said, waving its right paw round, "lives a Hatter: and in _that_ direction," waving the other paw, "lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad." "But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on "And how do you know that you're mad?" "To begin with," said the Cat, "a dog's not mad. You grant that?" "I suppose so," said Alice. "Well, then," the Cat went on, "you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now _I_ growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad." "_I_ call it purring, not growling," said Alice. "Call it what you like," said the Cat. "Do you play croquet with the Queen to-day?" "I should like it very much," said Alice, "but I haven't been invited yet." "You'll see me there," said the Cat, and vanished. Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again. "By-the-bye, what became of the baby?" said the Cat. "I'd nearly forgotten to ask." "It turned into a pig," Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way. "I thought it would," said the Cat, and vanished again. Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. "I've seen hatters before," she said to herself; "the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock	been invited yet." "You'll see me there," said the Cat, and vanished. Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again. "By-the-bye, what became of the baby?" said the Cat. "I'd nearly forgotten to ask." "It turned into a pig," Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way. "I thought it would," said the Cat, and vanished again. Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. "I've seen hatters before," she said to herself; "the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
said the captain,	No speaker	companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is	taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads;	Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that	man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should	voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more.	flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures." "Jem!" said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion's words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; "it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace." "Hush, hush, my lad! Don't take it	they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures." "Jem!" said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion's words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; "it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace." "Hush, hush, my lad! Don't take it that way. They arn't so werry heavy, and they don't hurt much." "Hurt? Not hurt much? Why, they are treating us as if we were thieves." "What, being ironed, sir? Well, it do seem a bit hard." "It's cruel! It's horrible! And he had no right to do it for such an offence." "Steady, my lad, steady. The sentry 'll hear you, and have his turn, p'r'aps, at telling tales." "But he had no right to do this, I say." "P'r'aps not, Mas' Don; but skippers does just what they please when they're out at sea in war time. I thought he was going to hang us once." "He would not dare," said Don. "Well, if he did, I should have liked to have a few words first with Mr Ramsden; for of all the mean, dirty, sneaking chaps I ever set eyes on, he's about the worst." "A mean, cowardly spy!" cried Don. "Ah, that's it; so he is, Mas' Don; a mean, cowardly spy. I couldn't think o' them words, but they're just what he is.--Say, Mas' Don." "Don't, don't, don't, Jem." "Don't what, Mas' Don?" "Don't do that. _Master Don_. It sounds so foolish, and it's ridiculous, seeing what we are." "All right, my lad, I'll be careful; but what I wanted to say was, would there be any harm in taking Master Ramsden by his waistband, and dropping him some night over into the sea?" "Do you want to commit murder, Jem?" "Do I want to commit murder? Nay, Mas' Don, gently, gently; don't talk to a man like that. I only meant to give him a ducking." "Amongst the sharks?" "Ugh! I forgot all about the sharks, Mas' Don. I say, think there are many of 'em about?" "They say there are plenty, and we saw a monster, Jem." "So we did, my lad; so we did, and a nice lot o' worry he's got us in through stealing that boathook. But, look here, how do you feel now?" "Heart-sick and tired of it all, Jem. I wish we had run off when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as	Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never	Don Lavington
said she,	No speaker	better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls."	from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;"	route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the	coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it	enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish." There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr. Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there. "Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?" "--was a question, however, which did not augur much.	man believed they were gone to Hartfield. "This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, "How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish." There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr. Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there. "Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?" "--was a question, however, which did not augur much. But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time. The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was to think of her at four. "My dear, dear anxious friend," "--said she, in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right." The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. "'Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon." She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's being a day before his	Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility. Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating. She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had been talked almost all the time--till just at last, when Mrs. Martin's saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that very room she had been measured last September, with her two friends. There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window. _He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour, the party, the occasion--to feel the same consciousness, the same regrets--to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and they were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months ago!--Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a _little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she have done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent. They must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary. It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither "master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield. "This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, "How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish." There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr. Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there. "Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?" "--was a question, however, which did not augur much. But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time. The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was to think of her at four. "My dear, dear anxious friend," "--said she, in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right." The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. "'Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon." She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure. The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually before her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be. He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day. "I told you yesterday," cried Mr. Weston with exultation, "I told you all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs." "It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it," said the young man, "though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far; but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing." The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency. Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it	ago!--Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a _little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she have done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent. They must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary. It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither "master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield. "This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, "How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish." There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr. Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there. "Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?" "--was a question, however, which did not augur much. But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time. The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was to think of her at four. "My dear, dear anxious friend," "--said she, in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right." The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. "'Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon." She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father--Mr.	Emma
"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"	Catherine Morland	it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take	got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent,	have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss	you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of	feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else." "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?" "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse." "And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?" "Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite	over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure. When they arrived at Mrs. Allen s door, the astonishment of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the house: "Past three o clock!" It was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother s, nor the servant s; she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer _then_, would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend s dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else." "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?" "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse." "And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?" "Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection, however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her when her mother died." "And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?" "I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is; but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely to do very well." Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most particularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with both brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as it was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had lost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very pleasant and that John	people who seldom aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented with a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit therefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to her that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily preserve them, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own concerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his companions together; and described to her some famous day s sport, with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many. Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for he was Isabella s brother; and she had been assured by James that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure. When they arrived at Mrs. Allen s door, the astonishment of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the house: "Past three o clock!" It was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother s, nor the servant s; she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer _then_, would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend s dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else." "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?" "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse." "And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?" "Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection, however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her when her mother died." "And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?" "I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is; but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely to do very well." Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most particularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with both brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as it was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had lost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable. CHAPTER 10 The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the theatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an opportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand things which had been collecting within her for communication in the immeasurable length of time which had divided them. "Oh, heavens! My beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?" was her address on Catherine s entering the box and sitting by her. "Now, Mr. Morland," for he was close to her on the other side, "I shall not speak another word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I need not ask you, for you look delightfully. You really have done your hair in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with you already; and as for Mr. Tilney but _that_ is a settled thing even _your_ modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes it too plain. Oh! What would not I give to see him! I really am quite wild with impatience. My mother says he is the most delightful young man in the world; she saw him this morning, you know; you must introduce him to me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for heaven s sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist till I see him." "No," said Catherine, "he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere." "Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own thought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you are	in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many. Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for he was Isabella s brother; and she had been assured by James that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure. When they arrived at Mrs. Allen s door, the astonishment of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the house: "Past three o clock!" It was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother s, nor the servant s; she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer _then_, would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend s dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else." "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?" "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse." "And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?" "Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection, however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her when her mother died." "And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?" "I	Northanger Abbey
In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.	No speaker	want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do	lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro	said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It	said. "I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a	I said to Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit." "I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right." "You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad." "She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her." "I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said. "I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen. "You go to the bull-fight," he said in English. "You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot.	over to the Iru a. It had filled up, and as the time for the bull-fight came it got fuller, and the tables were crowded closer. There was a close, crowded hum that came every day before the bull-fight. The caf did not make this same noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was. This hum went on, and we were in it and a part of it. I had taken six seats for all the fights. Three of them were barreras, the first row at the ring-side, and three were sobrepuertos, seats with wooden backs, half-way up the amphitheatre. Mike thought Brett had best sit high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to sit with them. Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and I gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell. Bill said something to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the horses. Bill had seen one season of bull-fights. "I'm not worried about how I'll stand it. I'm only afraid I may be bored," Cohn said. "You think so?" "Don't look at the horses, after the bull hits them," I said to Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit." "I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right." "You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad." "She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her." "I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said. "I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen. "You go to the bull-fight," he said in English. "You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot. "No," he answered, and smiled. One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?" We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door. "He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked. "He's a good-looking kid," I said. "He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type." "He's a fine boy." "We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya said. We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went down-stairs. It was a good bull-light. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had	was too late. I put on a coat of Cohn's and went out on the balcony. Down below the narrow street was empty. All the balconies were crowded with people. Suddenly a crowd came down the street. They were all running, packed close together. They passed along and up the street toward the bull-ring and behind them came more men running faster, and then some stragglers who were really running. Behind them was a little bare space, and then the bulls galloping, tossing their heads up and down. It all went out of sight around the corner. One man fell, rolled to the gutter, and lay quiet. But the bulls went right on and did not notice him. They were all running together. After they went out of sight a great roar came from the bull-ring. It kept on. Then finally the pop of the rocket that meant the bulls had gotten through the people in the ring and into the corrals. I went back in the room and got into bed. I had been standing on the stone balcony in bare feet. I knew our crowd must have all been out at the bull-ring. Back in bed, I went to sleep. Cohn woke me when he came in. He started to undress and went over and closed the window because the people on the balcony of the house just across the street were looking in. "Did you see the show?" I asked. "Yes. We were all there." "Anybody get hurt?" "One of the bulls got into the crowd in the ring and tossed six or eight people." "How did Brett like it?" "It was all so sudden there wasn't any time for it to bother anybody." "I wish I'd been up." "We didn't know where you were. We went to your room but it was locked." "Where did you stay up?" "We danced at some club." "I got sleepy," I said. "My gosh! I'm sleepy now," Cohn said. "Doesn't this thing ever stop?" "Not for a week." Bill opened the door and put his head in. "Where were you, Jake?" "I saw them go through from the balcony. How was it?" "Grand." "Where you going?" "To sleep." No one was up before noon. We ate at tables set out under the arcade. The town was full of people. We had to wait for a table. After lunch we went over to the Iru a. It had filled up, and as the time for the bull-fight came it got fuller, and the tables were crowded closer. There was a close, crowded hum that came every day before the bull-fight. The caf did not make this same noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was. This hum went on, and we were in it and a part of it. I had taken six seats for all the fights. Three of them were barreras, the first row at the ring-side, and three were sobrepuertos, seats with wooden backs, half-way up the amphitheatre. Mike thought Brett had best sit high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to sit with them. Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and I gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell. Bill said something to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the horses. Bill had seen one season of bull-fights. "I'm not worried about how I'll stand it. I'm only afraid I may be bored," Cohn said. "You think so?" "Don't look at the horses, after the bull hits them," I said to Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit." "I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right." "You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad." "She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her." "I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said. "I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen. "You go to the bull-fight," he said in English. "You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot. "No," he answered, and smiled. One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?" We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door. "He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked. "He's a good-looking kid," I said. "He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type." "He's a fine boy." "We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya said. We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went down-stairs. It was a good bull-light. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had killed his first bull Montoya caught my eye and nodded his head. This was a real one. There had not been a real one for a long time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was passable. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much. Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How	up before noon. We ate at tables set out under the arcade. The town was full of people. We had to wait for a table. After lunch we went over to the Iru a. It had filled up, and as the time for the bull-fight came it got fuller, and the tables were crowded closer. There was a close, crowded hum that came every day before the bull-fight. The caf did not make this same noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was. This hum went on, and we were in it and a part of it. I had taken six seats for all the fights. Three of them were barreras, the first row at the ring-side, and three were sobrepuertos, seats with wooden backs, half-way up the amphitheatre. Mike thought Brett had best sit high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to sit with them. Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and I gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell. Bill said something to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the horses. Bill had seen one season of bull-fights. "I'm not worried about how I'll stand it. I'm only afraid I may be bored," Cohn said. "You think so?" "Don't look at the horses, after the bull hits them," I said to Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit." "I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right." "You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad." "She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her." "I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said. "I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen. "You go to the bull-fight," he said in English. "You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot. "No," he answered, and smiled. One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?" We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door. "He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked. "He's a good-looking kid," I said. "He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type." "He's a fine boy." "We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya	The Sun Also Rises
she cried to him,	No speaker	looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't	with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo'	worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have	his hopes, but Kitty rose. The ingratiating "N' Yawker" was aghast. "Oh, let 'em stay," said Mrs. Jones heartily; "a little beer ain't goin' to hurt 'em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain't none the worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have that fellah down that plays 'Rag-time.' He 's out o' sight, I tell you." With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas. "I say, that 's singin' now, I	beer, and a half-dozen crabs in a bag. "Thought I 'd bring home something to chew. I always like to eat something with my beer." Mrs. Jones brought in the glasses, and the young man filled one and turned to Kitty. "No, thanks," she said with a surprised look. "What, don't you drink beer? Oh, come now, you 'll get out o' that." "Kitty don't drink no beer," broke in her mother with mild resentment. "I drinks it sometimes, but she don't. I reckon maybe de chillen better go to bed." Joe felt as if the "chillen" had ruined all his hopes, but Kitty rose. The ingratiating "N' Yawker" was aghast. "Oh, let 'em stay," said Mrs. Jones heartily; "a little beer ain't goin' to hurt 'em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain't none the worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have that fellah down that plays 'Rag-time.' He 's out o' sight, I tell you." With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas. "I say, that 's singin' now, I tell you," he cried. "You ought to have some o' the new songs. D' jever hear 'Baby, you got to leave'? I tell you, that 's a hot one. I 'll bring you some of 'em. Why, you could git a job on the stage easy with that voice o' yourn. I got a frien' in one o' the comp'nies an' I 'll speak to him about you." "You ought to git Mr. Thomas to take you to the th'atre some night. He goes lots." "Why, yes, what 's the matter with to-morrer night? There 's a good coon show	for me." "La, Thomas," Mrs. Jones put in, "how you do run on! Why, the strangers 'll think they 'll be talked to death before they have time to breathe." "Oh, I guess the folks understan' me. I 'm one o' them kin' o' men 'at believe in whooping things up right from the beginning. I 'm never strange with anybody. I 'm a N' Yawker, I tell you, from the word go. I say, Mis' Jones, let 's have some beer, an' we 'll have some music purty soon. There 's a fellah in the house 'at plays 'Rag-time' out o' sight." Mr. Thomas took the pail and went to the corner. As he left the room, Mrs. Jones slapped her knee and laughed until her bust shook like jelly. "Mr. Thomas is a case, sho'," she said; "but he likes you all, an' I 'm mighty glad of it, fu' he 's mighty curious about the house when he don't like the roomers." Joe felt distinctly flattered, for he found their new acquaintance charming. His mother was still a little doubtful, and Kitty was sure she found the young man "fresh." He came in pretty soon with his beer, and a half-dozen crabs in a bag. "Thought I 'd bring home something to chew. I always like to eat something with my beer." Mrs. Jones brought in the glasses, and the young man filled one and turned to Kitty. "No, thanks," she said with a surprised look. "What, don't you drink beer? Oh, come now, you 'll get out o' that." "Kitty don't drink no beer," broke in her mother with mild resentment. "I drinks it sometimes, but she don't. I reckon maybe de chillen better go to bed." Joe felt as if the "chillen" had ruined all his hopes, but Kitty rose. The ingratiating "N' Yawker" was aghast. "Oh, let 'em stay," said Mrs. Jones heartily; "a little beer ain't goin' to hurt 'em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain't none the worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have that fellah down that plays 'Rag-time.' He 's out o' sight, I tell you." With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas. "I say, that 's singin' now, I tell you," he cried. "You ought to have some o' the new songs. D' jever hear 'Baby, you got to leave'? I tell you, that 's a hot one. I 'll bring you some of 'em. Why, you could git a job on the stage easy with that voice o' yourn. I got a frien' in one o' the comp'nies an' I 'll speak to him about you." "You ought to git Mr. Thomas to take you to the th'atre some night. He goes lots." "Why, yes, what 's the matter with to-morrer night? There 's a good coon show in town. Out o' sight. Let 's all go." "I ain't nevah been to nothin' lak dat, an' I don't know," said Mrs. Hamilton. "Aw, come, I 'll git the tickets an' we 'll all go. Great singin', you know. What d' you say?" The mother hesitated, and Joe filled the breach. "We 'd all like to go," he said. "Ma, we' ll go if you ain't too tired." "Tired? Pshaw, you 'll furgit all about your tiredness when Smithkins gits on the stage. Y' ought to hear him sing," 'I bin huntin' fu' wo'k'! "You 'd die laughing." Mrs. Hamilton made no further demur, and the matter was closed. Awhile later the "Rag-time" man came down and gave them a sample of what they were to hear the next night. Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Jones two-stepped, and they sent a boy after some more beer. Joe found it a very jolly evening, but Kit's and the mother's hearts were heavy as they went up to bed. "Say," said Mr. Thomas when they had gone, "that little girl 's a peach, you bet; a little green, I guess, but she 'll ripen in the sun." VIII AN EVENING OUT Fannie	emotions, however, troubled Kit's mind. She too stood at the windows and looked down into the street. There was a sort of complacent calm in the manner in which she viewed the girls' hats and dresses. Many of them were really pretty, she told herself, but for the most part they were not better than what she had had down home. There was a sound quality in the girl's make-up that helped her to see through the glamour of mere place and recognise worth for itself. Or it may have been the critical faculty, which is prominent in most women, that kept her from thinking a five-cent cheese-cloth any better in New York than it was at home. She had a certain self-respect which made her value herself and her own traditions higher than her brother did his. When later in the evening the porter who had been kind to them came in and was introduced as Mr. William Thomas, young as she was, she took his open admiration for her with more coolness than Joe exhibited when Thomas offered to show him something of the town some day or night. Mr. Thomas was a loquacious little man with a confident air born of an intense admiration of himself. He was the idol of a number of servant-girls' hearts, and altogether a decidedly dashing back-area-way Don Juan. "I tell you, Miss Kitty," he burst forth, a few minutes after being introduced, "they ain't no use talkin', N' Yawk 'll give you a shakin' up 'at you won't soon forget. It 's the only town on the face of the earth. You kin bet your life they ain't no flies on N' Yawk. We git the best shows here, we git the best concerts--say, now, what 's the use o' my callin' it all out?--we simply git the best of everything." "Great place," said Joe wisely, in what he thought was going to be quite a man-of-the-world manner. But he burned with shame the next minute because his voice sounded so weak and youthful. Then too the oracle only said "Yes" to him, and went on expatiating to Kitty on the glories of the metropolis. "D'jever see the statue o' Liberty? Great thing, the statue o' Liberty. I 'll take you 'round some day. An' Cooney Island--oh, my, now that 's the place; and talk about fun! That 's the place for me." "La, Thomas," Mrs. Jones put in, "how you do run on! Why, the strangers 'll think they 'll be talked to death before they have time to breathe." "Oh, I guess the folks understan' me. I 'm one o' them kin' o' men 'at believe in whooping things up right from the beginning. I 'm never strange with anybody. I 'm a N' Yawker, I tell you, from the word go. I say, Mis' Jones, let 's have some beer, an' we 'll have some music purty soon. There 's a fellah in the house 'at plays 'Rag-time' out o' sight." Mr. Thomas took the pail and went to the corner. As he left the room, Mrs. Jones slapped her knee and laughed until her bust shook like jelly. "Mr. Thomas is a case, sho'," she said; "but he likes you all, an' I 'm mighty glad of it, fu' he 's mighty curious about the house when he don't like the roomers." Joe felt distinctly flattered, for he found their new acquaintance charming. His mother was still a little doubtful, and Kitty was sure she found the young man "fresh." He came in pretty soon with his beer, and a half-dozen crabs in a bag. "Thought I 'd bring home something to chew. I always like to eat something with my beer." Mrs. Jones brought in the glasses, and the young man filled one and turned to Kitty. "No, thanks," she said with a surprised look. "What, don't you drink beer? Oh, come now, you 'll get out o' that." "Kitty don't drink no beer," broke in her mother with mild resentment. "I drinks it sometimes, but she don't. I reckon maybe de chillen better go to bed." Joe felt as if the "chillen" had ruined all his hopes, but Kitty rose. The ingratiating "N' Yawker" was aghast. "Oh, let 'em stay," said Mrs. Jones heartily; "a little beer ain't goin' to hurt 'em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain't none the worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have that fellah down that plays 'Rag-time.' He 's out o' sight, I tell you." With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas. "I say, that 's singin' now, I tell you," he cried. "You ought to have some o' the new songs. D' jever hear 'Baby, you got to leave'? I tell you, that 's a hot one. I 'll bring you some of 'em. Why, you could git a job on the stage easy with that voice o' yourn. I got a frien' in one o' the comp'nies an' I 'll speak to him about you." "You ought to git Mr. Thomas to take you to the th'atre some night. He goes lots." "Why, yes, what 's the matter with to-morrer night? There 's a good coon show in town. Out o' sight. Let 's all go." "I ain't nevah been to nothin' lak dat, an' I don't know," said Mrs. Hamilton. "Aw, come, I 'll git the tickets an' we 'll all go. Great singin', you know. What d' you say?" The mother hesitated, and Joe filled the breach. "We 'd all like to go," he said. "Ma, we' ll go if you ain't too tired." "Tired? Pshaw, you 'll furgit all about your tiredness when Smithkins gits on the stage. Y' ought to hear him sing," 'I bin huntin' fu' wo'k'! "You 'd die laughing." Mrs. Hamilton made no further demur, and the matter was closed. Awhile later the "Rag-time" man came down and gave them a sample of what they were to hear the next night. Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Jones two-stepped, and they sent a boy after some more beer. Joe found it a very jolly evening, but Kit's and the mother's hearts were heavy as they went up to bed. "Say," said Mr. Thomas when they had gone, "that little girl 's a peach, you bet; a little green, I guess, but she 'll ripen in the sun." VIII AN EVENING OUT Fannie Hamilton, tired as she was, sat long into the night with her little family discussing New York,--its advantages and disadvantages, its beauty and its ugliness, its morality and immorality. She had somewhat receded from her first position, that it was better being here in the great strange city than being at home where the very streets shamed them. She had not liked the way that their fellow lodger looked at Kitty. It was bold, to say the least. She was not pleased, either, with their new acquaintance's familiarity. And yet, he had said no more than some stranger, if there could be such a stranger, would have said down home. There was a difference, however, which she recognised. Thomas was not the provincial who puts every one on a par with himself, nor was he the metropolitan who complacently patronises the whole world. He was trained out of the one and not up to the other. The intermediate only succeeded in being offensive. Mrs. Jones' assurance as to her guest's fine qualities did not do all that might have been expected to reassure Mrs. Hamilton in the face of the difficulties of the gentleman's manner. She could not, however, lay her finger on any particular point that would give her the reason for rejecting his friendly advances. She got ready the next evening to go to the theatre with the rest. Mr. Thomas at once possessed himself of Kitty and walked on ahead, leaving Joe to accompany his mother and Mrs. Jones,--an arrangement, by the way, not altogether to that young gentleman's taste. A good many men bowed to Thomas in the street, and they turned to look enviously after him. At the door of the theatre they had to run the gantlet of a dozen pairs of eyes. Here, too, the party's guide seemed to be well known, for some one said, before they passed out of hearing, "I wonder who that little light girl is that Thomas is with to-night? He 's a hot one for you." Mrs. Hamilton had been in a theatre but once before in her life, and Joe and Kit but a few times oftener. On those occasions they had sat far up in the peanut gallery in the place reserved for people of colour. This was not a pleasant, cleanly, nor beautiful locality, and by contrast with it, even the garishness of the	one o' them kin' o' men 'at believe in whooping things up right from the beginning. I 'm never strange with anybody. I 'm a N' Yawker, I tell you, from the word go. I say, Mis' Jones, let 's have some beer, an' we 'll have some music purty soon. There 's a fellah in the house 'at plays 'Rag-time' out o' sight." Mr. Thomas took the pail and went to the corner. As he left the room, Mrs. Jones slapped her knee and laughed until her bust shook like jelly. "Mr. Thomas is a case, sho'," she said; "but he likes you all, an' I 'm mighty glad of it, fu' he 's mighty curious about the house when he don't like the roomers." Joe felt distinctly flattered, for he found their new acquaintance charming. His mother was still a little doubtful, and Kitty was sure she found the young man "fresh." He came in pretty soon with his beer, and a half-dozen crabs in a bag. "Thought I 'd bring home something to chew. I always like to eat something with my beer." Mrs. Jones brought in the glasses, and the young man filled one and turned to Kitty. "No, thanks," she said with a surprised look. "What, don't you drink beer? Oh, come now, you 'll get out o' that." "Kitty don't drink no beer," broke in her mother with mild resentment. "I drinks it sometimes, but she don't. I reckon maybe de chillen better go to bed." Joe felt as if the "chillen" had ruined all his hopes, but Kitty rose. The ingratiating "N' Yawker" was aghast. "Oh, let 'em stay," said Mrs. Jones heartily; "a little beer ain't goin' to hurt 'em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain't none the worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have that fellah down that plays 'Rag-time.' He 's out o' sight, I tell you." With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas. "I say, that 's singin' now, I tell you," he cried. "You ought to have some o' the new songs. D' jever hear 'Baby, you got to leave'? I tell you, that 's a hot one. I 'll bring you some of 'em. Why, you could git a job on the stage easy with that voice o' yourn. I got a frien' in one o' the comp'nies an' I 'll speak to him about you." "You ought to git Mr. Thomas to take you to the th'atre some night. He goes lots." "Why, yes, what 's the matter with to-morrer night? There 's a good coon show in town. Out o' sight. Let 's all go." "I ain't nevah been to nothin' lak dat, an' I don't know," said Mrs. Hamilton. "Aw, come, I 'll git the tickets an' we 'll all go. Great singin', you know. What d' you say?" The mother hesitated, and Joe filled the breach. "We 'd all like to go," he said. "Ma, we' ll go if you ain't too tired." "Tired? Pshaw, you 'll furgit all about your tiredness when Smithkins gits on the stage. Y' ought to hear him sing," 'I bin huntin' fu' wo'k'! "You 'd die laughing." Mrs. Hamilton made no further demur, and the matter was closed. Awhile later the "Rag-time" man came down and gave them a sample of what they were to hear the next night. Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Jones two-stepped, and they sent a boy after some more beer. Joe found it a very jolly evening, but Kit's and the mother's hearts were heavy as they went up to bed. "Say," said Mr. Thomas when they had gone, "that little girl 's a peach, you bet; a little green, I guess, but she 'll ripen in the sun." VIII AN EVENING OUT Fannie Hamilton, tired as she was, sat long into the night with her little family discussing New York,--its advantages and disadvantages, its beauty and its ugliness, its morality and immorality. She had somewhat receded from her first position, that it was better being here in the great strange city than being at home where the very streets shamed them. She had not liked the way that their fellow lodger looked at Kitty. It was bold, to say the least. She was not pleased, either, with their new acquaintance's familiarity. And yet, he had said no more than some stranger, if there could be such a stranger, would have said down home. There was a difference, however, which she recognised. Thomas was not the provincial who puts every one on a par with himself, nor was he the metropolitan who complacently patronises the whole world. He was trained out of the one and not up to the other. The intermediate only succeeded in being offensive. Mrs. Jones' assurance as to her guest's fine qualities did not do all that might have been expected to reassure Mrs. Hamilton in the face of the difficulties of the gentleman's manner. She could	The Sport Of The Gods
"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."	Lucy	said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They	go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They	parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would	interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees	the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun. "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver." Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible	and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying: "I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets." "Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun. "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver." Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say: "I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won't you be better on your feet?" "Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan. "Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!" But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the street frequented by tourists. "She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watched her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven." Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the suggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; she wanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her on the wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not attempt. It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte had once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were	Lucy in a hasty whisper: "Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--and he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; it was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioning S., and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades of thought. She thought they were commercial travellers--" 'drummers' "was the word she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she did so:" 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,' "and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.' "It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:" 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:" 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' "Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers." "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:" 'I shall go alone.' "She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying: "I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets." "Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun. "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver." Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say: "I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won't you be better on your feet?" "Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan. "Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!" But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the street frequented by tourists. "She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watched her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven." Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the suggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; she wanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her on the wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not attempt. It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte had once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were inferior to men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to inspire others to achievement rather than to achieve themselves. Indirectly, by means of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much. But if she rushed into the fray herself she would be first censured, then despised, and finally ignored. Poems had been written to illustrate this point. There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons have gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much early Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of business, sweet to pay her honour when she has cooked our dinner well. But alas! the creature grows degenerate. In her heart also there are springing up strange desires. She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vast panoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She has marked the kingdom of this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war--a radiant crust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the receding heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully over the surface, having the most delightful meetings with other men, happy, not because they are masculine, but because they are alive. Before the show breaks up she would like to drop the august title of the Eternal Woman, and go there as her transitory self. Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal to which she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor has she any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed her particularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that she had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of	poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun. "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver." Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say: "I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won't you be better on your feet?" "Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan. "Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!" But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the street frequented by tourists. "She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watched her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven." Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the suggestive twitterings	A Room With A View
"Cheer up,"	Milly	into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a	arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you	all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes	reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would	and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do,	them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell," said Baby. "You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us	colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself," said James, who was new to this kind of work. "How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell," said Baby. "You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it." Presently Tony realized that it was not etiquette in Milly's world to express interest in women, other than the one you were with. They drank champagne. So also, noticed Tony with displeasure, did the two detectives. He would have something to say about that when their bill for expenses came in. It was not as though they had been accommodating in the matter of Winnie. All the time, at the back of his mind, he was worrying with the problem of what they could possibly do after dinner, but it was solved for him, just as he was lighting his cigar, by the appearance of Dan from the other side of the dining-room. "Look here," he said, "if you two aren't doing anything special, why don't you join up with us and come to the party at my friend's place. You'll like it. He always gives one the best of everything." "Oh, do let's," said Milly. Dan's evening clothes were made of blue cloth that was supposed to appear black in artificial light; for some reason, however, they remained very blue. So Milly and Tony went to Dan's friend's place and had the best of everything. There was a party of twenty or thirty people, all more or less like Dan. Dan's friend was most hospitable. When he was not fiddling with the wireless, which gave trouble off and on throughout the evening, he was sauntering among his guests refilling their glasses. "This stuff's all right," he said, showing the label, "it won't hurt you. It's the right stuff." They had a lot of the right stuff. Quite often Dan's friend noticed that Tony seemed to be out of the party. Then he would come across and put his hand on Tony's shoulder. "I'm so glad Dan brought you," he would say. "Hope you're getting all you want. Delighted to see	bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell," said Baby. "You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend	A Handful Of Dust
she answered herself.	No speaker	_that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons	learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly	least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a	fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting	magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in	see what this bottle does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!" It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself "That's quite enough--I hope I shan't grow any more--As it is, I can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so much!" Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself "Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What _will_ become of me?" Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" "Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!" and at last she spread out her hand again,	to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door, had vanished completely. Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone, "Why, Mary Ann, what _are_ you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!" And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it had made. "He took me for his housemaid," she said to herself as she ran. "How surprised he'll be when he finds out who I am! But I'd better take him his fan and gloves--that is, if I can find them." As she said this, she came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass plate with the name "W. RABBIT," engraved upon it. She went in without knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the fan and gloves. "How queer it seems," Alice said to herself, "to be going messages for a rabbit! I suppose Dinah'll be sending me on messages next!" And she began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: "'Miss Alice! Come here directly, and get ready for your walk!' 'Coming in a minute, nurse! But I've got to see that the mouse doesn't get out.' Only I don't think," Alice went on, "that they'd let Dinah stop in the house if it began ordering people about like that!" By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three pairs of tiny white kid gloves: she took up the fan and a pair of the gloves, and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a little bottle that stood near the looking-glass. There was no label this time with the words "DRINK ME," but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it to her lips. "I know _something_ interesting is sure to happen," she said to herself, "whenever I eat or drink anything; so I'll just see what this bottle does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!" It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself "That's quite enough--I hope I shan't grow any more--As it is, I can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so much!" Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself "Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What _will_ become of me?" Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" "Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!" and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. "What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: "Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!" (a loud crash)--"Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, _I_ shan't! _You_ do it!--_That_ I won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to go down the chimney!" "Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?" said Alice to herself. "Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but I _think_ I can kick a little!" She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till she heard a little animal (she couldn't guess of what sort it was) scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then, saying to herself "This is Bill," she gave one sharp kick, and waited to see what would happen next. The first thing she heard was a general chorus of "There goes Bill!" then the Rabbit's voice along--" "Catch him, you by the hedge!" then silence, and then another confusion of voices--"Hold up his head--Brandy now--Don't choke him--How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell us all about it!" Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, (" "That's Bill," thought Alice,) "Well, I hardly know--No more, thank ye; I'm better now--but I'm a deal too flustered to tell you--all I know is, something comes at me like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!" "So you did, old fellow!" said the others. "We	does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!" It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself "That's quite enough--I hope I shan't grow any more--As it is, I can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so much!" Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself "Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What _will_ become of me?" Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" "Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
she replied, very feelingly;	No speaker	am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go.	my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I	she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten	abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within Isabella s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have not!" cried Catherine. "I	would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing." "Catherine, you must go," said James. "But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say either of them would like to go." "Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you." "That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within Isabella s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have not!" cried Catherine. "I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine hey?" Isabella s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again. "A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over;	everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse." This was the first time of her brother s openly siding against her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied. But "No, no, no!" was the immediate answer; "that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing." "Catherine, you must go," said James. "But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say either of them would like to go." "Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you." "That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within Isabella s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have not!" cried Catherine. "I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine hey?" Isabella s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again. "A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party." "This will not do," said Catherine; "I cannot submit to this. I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right." Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection. "I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me." Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time. "Then I will go	upon any account, retract. But that she _must_ and _should_ retract, was instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton tomorrow, they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal. Catherine was distressed, but not subdued. "Do not urge me, Isabella. I am engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go." This availed nothing. The same arguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would not hear of a refusal. "It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put off the walk till Tuesday." "No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior engagement." But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling on her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most endearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so dearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained by such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to influence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her with having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so little a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. "I cannot help being jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who love you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are stronger than anybody s; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace; and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut me to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else." Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others? Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse." This was the first time of her brother s openly siding against her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied. But "No, no, no!" was the immediate answer; "that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing." "Catherine, you must go," said James. "But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say either of them would like to go." "Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you." "That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within Isabella s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have not!" cried Catherine. "I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine hey?" Isabella s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again. "A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party." "This will not do," said Catherine; "I cannot submit to this. I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right." Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection. "I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me." Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time. "Then I will go after them," said Catherine; "wherever they are I will go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it." And with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have darted after her, but Morland withheld him. "Let her go, let her go, if she will go." "She is as obstinate as" Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper one. Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother; but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before, and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted merely her own gratification; _that_ might have been ensured in some degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had attended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their opinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent, she almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the Tilneys advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still remaining at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying that she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which happened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the drawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her explanation, defective only in being from her irritation of nerves and shortness of breath no explanation at all, was instantly given. "I am come in a great hurry It was	selfish, regardless of everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse." This was the first time of her brother s openly siding against her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied. But "No, no, no!" was the immediate answer; "that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing." "Catherine, you must go," said James. "But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say either of them would like to go." "Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you." "That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within Isabella s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have not!" cried Catherine. "I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine hey?" Isabella s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again. "A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party." "This will not do," said Catherine; "I cannot submit to this. I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right." Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection. "I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me." Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time. "Then I will go after them," said Catherine; "wherever they are I will go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it." And with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have darted after her, but Morland withheld him. "Let her go, let her go, if she will go." "She is as obstinate as" Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper one. Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother; but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before, and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not	Northanger Abbey
Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.	No speaker	such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the	rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes	on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!”	an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll	meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under	Mr. Bender’s bound, as he’d say,” Lady Sand-gate interposed-- “‘bound’ to make you swallow the enormous luscious plum that your appetite so morbidly rejects!” “My appetite, as morbid as you like” --her old friend had shrewdly turned on her-- “is my own affair, and if the fellow must deal in enormities I warn him to carry them elsewhere!” Lord John, plainly, by this time, was quite exasperated at the absurdity of him. “But how can’t you see that it’s only a plum, as she says, for a plum and an eye for an eye--since the picture itself, with this huge ventilation, is now quite a different affair?” “How the deuce a different affair when just what the man himself confesses is that, in spite of all the chatter of the prigs and pedants, there’s no really established ground for treating it as anything but the same?” On which, as having so unanswerably spoken, Lord Theign shook himself free again, in his high petulance, and moved restlessly to where the passage to the other room appeared to offer his nerves an issue; all moreover to the effect of suggesting to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the	on the housetops that’s a Mantovano of the Mantovanos, and others shrieking back at them that they’re donkeys if not criminals.” “He may take it for whatever he likes,” said Lord Theign, heedless of these contributions, “he may father it on Michael Angelo himself if he’ll but clear out with it and let me alone!” “What he’d _like_ to take it for,” Lord John at this point saw his way to remark, “is something in the nature of a Hundred Thousand.” “A Hundred Thousand?” cried his astonished friend. “Quite, I dare say, a Hundred Thousand” --the young man enjoyed clearly handling even by the lips so round a sum. Lady Sandgate disclaimed however with agility any appearance of having gaped. “Why, haven’t you yet realised, Theign, that those are the American figures?” His lordship looked at her fixedly and then did the same by Lord John, after which he waited a little. “I’ve nothing to do with the American figures--which seem to me, if you press me, you know, quite intolerably vulgar.” “Well, I’d be as vulgar as anybody for a Hundred Thousand!” Lady Sandgate hastened to proclaim. “Didn’t he let us know at Dedborough,” Lord John asked of the master of that seat, “that he had no use, as he said, for lower values?” “I’ve heard him remark myself,” said their companion, rising to the monstrous memory, “that he wouldn’t take a cheap picture--even though a ‘handsome’ one--as a present.” “And does he call the thing round the corner a cheap picture?” the proprietor of the work demanded. Lord John threw up his arms with a grin of impatience. “All he wants to do, don’t you see? is to prevent your _making_ it one!” Lord Theign glared at this imputation to him of a low ductility. “I offered the thing, as it was, at an estimate worthy of it--and of _me_.” “My dear reckless friend,” his young adviser protested, “you named no figure _at all_ when it came to the point----!” “It _didn’t_ come to the point! Nothing came to the point but that I put a Moretto on view; as a thing, yes, perfectly” --Lord Theign accepted the reminding gesture-- “on which a rich American had an eye and in which he had, so to speak, an interest. That was what I wanted, and so we left it--parting each of us ready but neither of us bound.” “Ah, Mr. Bender’s bound, as he’d say,” Lady Sand-gate interposed-- “‘bound’ to make you swallow the enormous luscious plum that your appetite so morbidly rejects!” “My appetite, as morbid as you like” --her old friend had shrewdly turned on her-- “is my own affair, and if the fellow must deal in enormities I warn him to carry them elsewhere!” Lord John, plainly, by this time, was quite exasperated at the absurdity of him. “But how can’t you see that it’s only a plum, as she says, for a plum and an eye for an eye--since the picture itself, with this huge ventilation, is now quite a different affair?” “How the deuce a different affair when just what the man himself confesses is that, in spite of all the chatter of the prigs and pedants, there’s no really established ground for treating it as anything but the same?” On which, as having so unanswerably spoken, Lord Theign shook himself free again, in his high petulance, and moved restlessly to where the passage to the other room appeared to offer his nerves an issue; all moreover to the effect of suggesting to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them. “Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?” Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him at me as a pecuniary resource at Dedborough. I didn’t put my property on view that _he_ might blow about it------!” “No, if you like it,” Lady Sandgate returned; “but you certainly didn’t so arrange” --she seemed to think her point somehow would help-- “that you might blow about it yourself!” “Nobody wants to ‘blow,’” Lord John more stoutly interposed, “either hot or cold, I take it; but I really don’t see the harm of Bender’s liking to be known for the scale of his transactions--actual or merely imputed even, if you will; since that scale is really so magnificent.” Lady Sandgate half accepted, half qualified this plea. “The only question perhaps is why he doesn’t try for some precious work that somebody--less delicious than dear Theign--_can_ be persuaded on bended knees to accept a hundred thousand for.” “‘Try’ for one?” --her	to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t	The Outcry
"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"	Hercule Poirot	expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have	would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give	my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a	had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity. Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: "I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint." "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost	was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash. "_Messieurs, mesdames_," said Poirot, with a flourish, "let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!" CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS "Poirot, you old villain," I said, "I've half a mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?" We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity. Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: "I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint." "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?" "Yes, but" "And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely different persons?" "No," I said, "it was not plain to me!" "Then again," continued Poirot, "at the beginning, did I not repeat to you several times that I didn't want Mr. Inglethorp arrested _now_? That should have conveyed something to you." "Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?" "Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp's death,	the last link of the chain is now in my hands." Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper. "A letter in the murderer's own hand-writing, _mes amis!_ Had it been a little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp, warned in time, would have escaped. As it was, she realized her danger, but not the manner of it." In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and, clearing his throat, read: Dearest Evelyn: You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right only it will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There's a good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea of yours about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must be very circumspect. A false step ' "Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this hand-writing and" A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence. "You devil! How did you get it?" A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash. "_Messieurs, mesdames_," said Poirot, with a flourish, "let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!" CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS "Poirot, you old villain," I said, "I've half a mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?" We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity. Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: "I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint." "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?" "Yes, but" "And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely different persons?" "No," I said, "it was not plain to me!" "Then again," continued Poirot, "at the beginning, did I not repeat to you several times that I didn't want Mr. Inglethorp arrested _now_? That should have conveyed something to you." "Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?" "Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp's death, her husband would benefit the most. There was no getting away from that. When I went up to Styles with you that first day, I had no idea as to how the crime had been committed, but from what I knew of Mr. Inglethorp I fancied that it would be very hard to find anything to connect him with it. When I arrived at the ch teau, I realized at once that it was Mrs. Inglethorp who had burnt the will; and there, by the way, you cannot complain, my friend, for I tried my best to force on you the significance of that bedroom fire in midsummer." "Yes, yes," I said impatiently. "Go on." "Well, my friend, as I say, my views as to Mr. Inglethorp's guilt were very much shaken. There was, in fact, so much evidence against him that I was inclined to believe that he had not done it." "When did you change your mind?" "When I found that the more efforts I made to clear him, the more efforts he made to get himself arrested. Then, when I discovered that Inglethorp had nothing to do with Mrs. Raikes and that in fact it was John	and then answered himself impressively. "Her medicine!" "Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her tonic?" I cried. "There was no need to introduce it. It was already there in the mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to you, I will read you an extract from a book on dispensing which I found in the Dispensary of the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:" "The following prescription has become famous in text books:" Strychninae Sulph. . . . . . 1 gr. Potass Bromide . . . . . . . 3vi Aqua ad. . . . . . . . . . . . . 3viii Fiat Mistura _This solution deposits in a few hours the greater part of the strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide in transparent crystals. A lady in England lost her life by taking a similar mixture: the precipitated strychnine collected at the bottom, and in taking the last dose she swallowed nearly all of it!_ "Now there was, of course, no bromide in Dr. Wilkins' prescription, but you will remember that I mentioned an empty box of bromide powders. One or two of those powders introduced into the full bottle of medicine would effectually precipitate the strychnine, as the book describes, and cause it to be taken in the last dose. You will learn later that the person who usually poured out Mrs. Inglethorp's medicine was always extremely careful not to shake the bottle, but to leave the sediment at the bottom of it undisturbed." "Throughout the case, there have been evidences that the tragedy was intended to take place on Monday evening. On that day, Mrs. Inglethorp's bell wire was neatly cut, and on Monday evening Mademoiselle Cynthia was spending the night with friends, so that Mrs. Inglethorp would have been quite alone in the right wing, completely shut off from help of any kind, and would have died, in all probability, before medical aid could have been summoned. But in her hurry to be in time for the village entertainment Mrs. Inglethorp forgot to take her medicine, and the next day she lunched away from home, so that the last and fatal dose was actually taken twenty-four hours later than had been anticipated by the murderer; and it is owing to that delay that the final proof the last link of the chain is now in my hands." Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper. "A letter in the murderer's own hand-writing, _mes amis!_ Had it been a little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp, warned in time, would have escaped. As it was, she realized her danger, but not the manner of it." In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and, clearing his throat, read: Dearest Evelyn: You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right only it will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There's a good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea of yours about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must be very circumspect. A false step ' "Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this hand-writing and" A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence. "You devil! How did you get it?" A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash. "_Messieurs, mesdames_," said Poirot, with a flourish, "let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!" CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS "Poirot, you old villain," I said, "I've half a mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?" We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity. Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: "I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint." "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?" "Yes, but" "And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely different persons?" "No," I said, "it was not plain to me!" "Then again," continued Poirot, "at the beginning, did I not repeat to you several times that I didn't want Mr. Inglethorp arrested _now_? That should have conveyed something to you." "Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?" "Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp's death, her husband would benefit the most. There was no getting away from that. When I went up to Styles with you that first day, I had no idea as to how the crime had been committed, but from what I knew of Mr. Inglethorp I fancied that it would be very hard to find anything to connect him with it. When I arrived at the ch teau, I realized at once that it was Mrs. Inglethorp who had burnt the will; and there, by the way, you cannot complain, my friend, for I tried my best to force on you the significance of that bedroom fire in midsummer." "Yes, yes," I said impatiently. "Go on." "Well, my friend, as I say, my views as to Mr. Inglethorp's guilt were very much shaken. There was, in fact, so much evidence against him that I was inclined to believe that he had not done it." "When did you change your mind?" "When I found that the more efforts I made to clear him, the more efforts he made to get himself arrested. Then, when I discovered that Inglethorp had nothing to do with Mrs. Raikes and that in fact it was John Cavendish who was interested in that quarter, I was quite sure." "But why?" "Simply this. If it had been Inglethorp who was carrying on an intrigue with Mrs. Raikes, his silence was perfectly comprehensible. But, when I discovered that it was known all over the village that it was John who was attracted by the farmer's pretty wife, his silence bore quite a different interpretation. It was nonsense to pretend that he was afraid of the scandal, as no possible scandal could attach to him. This attitude of his gave me furiously to think, and I was slowly forced to the conclusion that Alfred Inglethorp wanted to be arrested. _Eh bien!_ from that moment, I was equally determined that he should not be arrested." "Wait a minute. I don't see why he wished to be arrested?" "Because, _mon ami_, it is the law of your country that a man once acquitted can never be tried again for the same offence. Aha! but it was clever his idea! Assuredly, he is a man of method. See here, he knew that in his position he was bound to be suspected, so he conceived the exceedingly clever idea of preparing a lot of manufactured evidence against himself. He wished to be arrested. He would then produce his irreproachable alibi and, hey presto, he was safe for life!" "But I still don't see how he managed to prove his alibi, and yet go to the chemist's shop?" Poirot stared at me in surprise. "Is it possible? My poor friend! You have not yet realized that it was Miss Howard who went to the chemist's shop?" "Miss Howard?" "But, certainly. Who else? It was most easy for her. She is of a good height, her voice is deep and manly; moreover, remember, she and Inglethorp are cousins, and there is a distinct resemblance between them, especially in their gait and bearing. It was simplicity itself. They are a clever pair!" "I am still a little fogged as to how exactly the bromide business was done," I remarked. "_Bon!_ I will reconstruct for you as far as possible. I am inclined to think that Miss Howard was the master mind in that affair. You remember her once mentioning that her father was a doctor? Possibly she dispensed his medicines for him, or she may have taken the idea from one of the many books lying about	"Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this hand-writing and" A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence. "You devil! How did you get it?" A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash. "_Messieurs, mesdames_," said Poirot, with a flourish, "let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!" CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS "Poirot, you old villain," I said, "I've half a mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?" We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity. Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: "I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint." "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?" "Yes, but" "And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely different persons?" "No," I said, "it was not plain to me!" "Then again," continued Poirot, "at the beginning, did I not repeat to you several times that I didn't want Mr. Inglethorp arrested _now_? That should have conveyed something to you." "Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?" "Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp's death, her husband would benefit the most. There was no getting away from that. When I	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"	Henry Tilney	young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am	But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do	her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you	in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word nicest, as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can,	I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word nicest, as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement people were nice in their dress,	of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath. "I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France." "You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised. "Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you gentlemen read better books." "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe s works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word nicest, as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word." "While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?" "To say the truth, I do not much like any other." "Indeed!" "That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?" "Yes, I am fond of history." "I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should	must not be over particular. Young people _will_ be young people, as your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do not like to be always thwarted." "But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you would have found me hard to persuade." "As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done," said Mr. Allen; "and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any more." "That is just what I was going to say," added his wife. Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a moment s thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper and kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of which she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing any such thing. "You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is old enough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however, you had better not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and you will be only getting ill will." Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen s approbation of her own conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the danger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another? CHAPTER 14 The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath. "I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France." "You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised. "Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you gentlemen read better books." "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe s works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word nicest, as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word." "While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?" "To say the truth, I do not much like any other." "Indeed!" "That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?" "Yes, I am fond of history." "I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes mouths, their thoughts and designs the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books." "Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, "are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of history and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one s own observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made and probably with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great." "You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person s courage that could sit down on purpose to do it." "That little boys and girls should be tormented," said Henry, "is what no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the verb to torment, as I observed to be your own method, instead of to instruct,	escape indeed; for what would the Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another? CHAPTER 14 The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath. "I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France." "You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised. "Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you gentlemen read better books." "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe s works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word nicest, as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word." "While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?" "To say the truth, I do not much like any other." "Indeed!" "That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?" "Yes, I am fond of history." "I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes mouths, their thoughts and designs the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books." "Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, "are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of history and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the	Northanger Abbey
"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."	Anne Steele	so unfairly by your sister?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>Elinor tried to talk of	yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele	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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that." (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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." (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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." (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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." (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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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 continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following natural remark. "Wait for his having a living! ay, we all know how _that_ will end: they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can give her. Then they will have a child every year! and Lord help em! how poor they will be! I must see what I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed! as I talked of t other day. No, no, they must get a stout girl of all works. Betty s sister would never do for them _now_." The next	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?" "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." (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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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.	Sense And Sensibility
"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."	Signor Carella	out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak.	from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her.	upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes	I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number." Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. Thank you, Gino--" The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed. There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had	is Perfetta?" His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speaking to Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of the landing and the two open doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time. She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet. "You know!" he continued, "but you will not tell me. Exactly like you." He reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. "And why won t you tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number." Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. Thank you, Gino--" The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed. There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, which she refused. She had not one word to say to him. "What is it?" he repeated. "What has frightened you?" He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan. For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone. "Business--" she said at last. "Business with me?" "Most important business." She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair. "Before business you must get well; this is the best wine." She refused	before them a long and profitable friendship. But she must succeed. No one would forgive her if she did not succeed. She prepared to do battle with the powers of evil. The voice of her adversary was heard at last, singing fearlessly from his expanded lungs, like a professional. Herein he differed from Englishmen, who always have a little feeling against music, and sing only from the throat, apologetically. He padded upstairs, and looked in at the open door of the reception-room without seeing her. Her heart leapt and her throat was dry when he turned away and passed, still singing, into the room opposite. It is alarming not to be seen. He had left the door of this room open, and she could see into it, right across the landing. It was in a shocking mess. Food, bedclothes, patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives lay strewn over a large table and on the floor. But it was the mess that comes of life, not of desolation. It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she was standing now, and the light in it was soft and large, as from some gracious, noble opening. He stopped singing, and cried "Where is Perfetta?" His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speaking to Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of the landing and the two open doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time. She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet. "You know!" he continued, "but you will not tell me. Exactly like you." He reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. "And why won t you tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number." Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. Thank you, Gino--" The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed. There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, which she refused. She had not one word to say to him. "What is it?" he repeated. "What has frightened you?" He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan. For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone. "Business--" she said at last. "Business with me?" "Most important business." She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair. "Before business you must get well; this is the best wine." She refused it feebly. He poured out a glass. She drank it. As she did so she became self-conscious. However important the business, it was not proper of her to have called on him, or to accept his hospitality. "Perhaps you are engaged," she said. "And as I am not very well--" "You are not well enough to go back. And I am not engaged." She looked nervously at the other room. "Ah, now I understand," he exclaimed. "Now I see what frightened you. But why did you never speak?" And taking her into the room where he lived, he pointed to--the baby. She had thought so much about this baby, of its welfare, its soul, its morals, its probable defects. But, like most unmarried people, she had only thought of it as a word--just as the healthy man only thinks of the word death, not of death itself. The real thing, lying asleep on a dirty rug, disconcerted her. It did not stand for a principle any longer. It was so much flesh and blood, so many inches and ounces of life--a glorious, unquestionable fact, which a man and another woman had given to the world. You could talk to it;	everything there lay a deposit of heavy white dust, which was only blown off one moment to thicken on another. It is well to be remembered with love. It is not so very dreadful to be forgotten entirely. But if we shall resent anything on earth at all, we shall resent the consecration of a deserted room. Miss Abbott did not sit down, partly because the antimacassars might harbour fleas, partly because she had suddenly felt faint, and was glad to cling on to the funnel of the stove. She struggled with herself, for she had need to be very calm; only if she was very calm might her behaviour be justified. She had broken faith with Philip and Harriet: she was going to try for the baby before they did. If she failed she could scarcely look them in the face again. "Harriet and her brother," she reasoned, "don t realize what is before them. She would bluster and be rude; he would be pleasant and take it as a joke. Both of them--even if they offered money--would fail. But I begin to understand the man s nature; he does not love the child, but he will be touchy about it--and that is quite as bad for us. He s charming, but he s no fool; he conquered me last year; he conquered Mr. Herriton yesterday, and if I am not careful he will conquer us all today, and the baby will grow up in Monteriano. He is terribly strong; Lilia found that out, but only I remember it now." This attempt, and this justification of it, were the results of the long and restless night. Miss Abbott had come to believe that she alone could do battle with Gino, because she alone understood him; and she had put this, as nicely as she could, in a note which she had left for Philip. It distressed her to write such a note, partly because her education inclined her to reverence the male, partly because she had got to like Philip a good deal after their last strange interview. His pettiness would be dispersed, and as for his "unconventionality," which was so much gossiped about at Sawston, she began to see that it did not differ greatly from certain familiar notions of her own. If only he would forgive her for what she was doing now, there might perhaps be before them a long and profitable friendship. But she must succeed. No one would forgive her if she did not succeed. She prepared to do battle with the powers of evil. The voice of her adversary was heard at last, singing fearlessly from his expanded lungs, like a professional. Herein he differed from Englishmen, who always have a little feeling against music, and sing only from the throat, apologetically. He padded upstairs, and looked in at the open door of the reception-room without seeing her. Her heart leapt and her throat was dry when he turned away and passed, still singing, into the room opposite. It is alarming not to be seen. He had left the door of this room open, and she could see into it, right across the landing. It was in a shocking mess. Food, bedclothes, patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives lay strewn over a large table and on the floor. But it was the mess that comes of life, not of desolation. It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she was standing now, and the light in it was soft and large, as from some gracious, noble opening. He stopped singing, and cried "Where is Perfetta?" His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speaking to Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of the landing and the two open doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time. She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet. "You know!" he continued, "but you will not tell me. Exactly like you." He reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. "And why won t you tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number." Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. Thank you, Gino--" The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed. There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, which she refused. She had not one word to say to him. "What is it?" he repeated. "What has frightened you?" He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan. For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone. "Business--" she said at last. "Business with me?" "Most important business." She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair. "Before business you must get well; this is the best wine." She refused it feebly. He poured out a glass. She drank it. As she did so she became self-conscious. However important the business, it was not proper of her to have called on him, or to accept his hospitality. "Perhaps you are engaged," she said. "And as I am not very well--" "You are not well enough to go back. And I am not engaged." She looked nervously at the other room. "Ah, now I understand," he exclaimed. "Now I see what frightened you. But why did you never speak?" And taking her into the room where he lived, he pointed to--the baby. She had thought so much about this baby, of its welfare, its soul, its morals, its probable defects. But, like most unmarried people, she had only thought of it as a word--just as the healthy man only thinks of the word death, not of death itself. The real thing, lying asleep on a dirty rug, disconcerted her. It did not stand for a principle any longer. It was so much flesh and blood, so many inches and ounces of life--a glorious, unquestionable fact, which a man and another woman had given to the world. You could talk to it; in time it would answer you; in time it would not answer you unless it chose, but would secrete, within the compass of its body, thoughts and wonderful passions of its own. And this was the machine on which she and Mrs. Herriton and Philip and Harriet had for the last month been exercising their various ideals--had determined that in time it should move this way or that way, should accomplish this and not that. It was to be Low Church, it was to be high-principled, it was to be tactful, gentlemanly, artistic--excellent things all. Yet now that she saw this baby, lying asleep on a dirty rug, she had a great disposition not to dictate one of them, and to exert no more influence than there may be in a kiss or in the vaguest of the heartfelt prayers. But she had practised self-discipline, and her thoughts and actions were not yet to correspond. To recover her self-esteem she tried to imagine that she was in her district, and to behave accordingly. "What a fine child, Signor Carella. And how nice of you to talk to it. Though I see that the ungrateful little fellow is asleep! Seven months? No, eight; of course eight. Still, he is a remarkably fine child for his age." Italian is a bad medium for condescension. The patronizing words came out gracious and sincere, and he smiled with pleasure. "You must not stand. Let us sit on the loggia, where it is cool. I am afraid the room is very untidy," he added, with the air of a hostess who apologizes for a stray thread on the drawing-room carpet. Miss Abbott picked her way to the chair. He sat near her, astride the parapet, with one foot in the loggia and the other dangling into the view. His face was in profile, and its beautiful contours drove artfully against the misty green of the opposing hills. "Posing!" said Miss Abbott to herself. "A born artist s model." "Mr. Herriton called yesterday," she began, "but you were out." He started an elaborate and graceful explanation. He had gone for the day to Poggibonsi. Why had the Herritons not written to him, so that he could have received them properly? Poggibonsi would have done any day; not but what his business there was fairly important. What did she suppose that it was? Naturally she was not	notions of her own. If only he would forgive her for what she was doing now, there might perhaps be before them a long and profitable friendship. But she must succeed. No one would forgive her if she did not succeed. She prepared to do battle with the powers of evil. The voice of her adversary was heard at last, singing fearlessly from his expanded lungs, like a professional. Herein he differed from Englishmen, who always have a little feeling against music, and sing only from the throat, apologetically. He padded upstairs, and looked in at the open door of the reception-room without seeing her. Her heart leapt and her throat was dry when he turned away and passed, still singing, into the room opposite. It is alarming not to be seen. He had left the door of this room open, and she could see into it, right across the landing. It was in a shocking mess. Food, bedclothes, patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives lay strewn over a large table and on the floor. But it was the mess that comes of life, not of desolation. It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she was standing now, and the light in it was soft and large, as from some gracious, noble opening. He stopped singing, and cried "Where is Perfetta?" His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speaking to Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of the landing and the two open doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time. She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet. "You know!" he continued, "but you will not tell me. Exactly like you." He reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. "And why won t you tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number." Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. Thank you, Gino--" The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed. There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, which she refused. She had not one word to say to him. "What is it?" he repeated. "What has frightened you?" He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan. For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone. "Business--" she said at last. "Business with me?" "Most important business." She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair. "Before business you must get well; this is the best wine." She refused it feebly. He poured out a glass. She drank it. As she did so she became self-conscious. However important the business, it was not proper of her to have called on him, or to accept his hospitality. "Perhaps you are engaged," she said. "And as I am not very well--" "You are not well enough to go back. And I am not engaged." She looked nervously at the other room. "Ah, now I understand," he exclaimed. "Now I see what frightened you. But why did you never speak?" And taking her into the room where he lived, he pointed to--the baby. She had thought so much about this baby, of its welfare, its soul, its morals, its probable defects. But, like most unmarried people, she had only thought of it as a word--just as the healthy man only thinks of the word death, not of death itself. The real thing, lying asleep on a dirty rug, disconcerted her.	Where Angels Fear To Tread
"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"	Jem Wimble	for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he	below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget	no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think	allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly,	him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been	not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not allowed to ask questions as to what's right or wrong." "But I was treated like a criminal," said Don. "You were treated far better than pressed men are as a rule especially those who try to break away. But I can't argue that with you. You and your companion are king's men now, or king's boys, and have to do your duty. Let's come back to to-day's work. The captain's offended, and I want to save you from trouble if I can." "It's very kind of you, sir," said Don. "Now tell me this. Do you know what you were going to do when the captain knocked you backwards?" Don was silent. "Well, I'll tell you," said the boatswain. "You were going to strike him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough,	in his hot rage everything about their relative positions and the difference in age, the boy made for the tall, frowning officer before him, and would have struck him in his blind wrath but for Bosun Jones, who had seen everything, and now hastily interposed. "No, no, my boy," he said. "Keep back, you are too wet to do any good. Allow me, sir." Don shrank back, realising the heinousness of the social sin he was about to commit, and a dead silence fell on the group, the men staring wonderingly as the captain accepted Bosun Jones' help, stepped into the boat, and stood wringing himself. "Why, the young dog was going to strike me!" cried the captain. "Surely not, sir," said the boatswain hastily. "Only going to help you, sir." "Help me! I believe he was going to hit out. Here, sir, what made you start away like that?" "He thought it was a shark, sir," cried Jem. "One's been about the boat all the aft'noon." "Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the captain sternly. "Here, you boy, what made you flinch!" "Thought I felt the shark touch me, sir," said Don, sullenly. "Oh, then I am to be thrown into the water because you are a cowardly young idiot," cried the captain. "I'll talk to you to-morrow. In with you, my lads, and give way." "There's no boathook!" cried the coxswain; and on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop. "Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook," said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook? Let's have the simple truth. One of the Maoris stole it, and you were afraid to speak?" "I was not afraid to speak the truth, sir," said Don; "and I told it." "But that's such a wild story. Your messmate could not have driven it into a shark over the hook." "I don't know whether it was driven in over the hook, sir," replied Don; "but it stuck in the fish's back and would not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not allowed to ask questions as to what's right or wrong." "But I was treated like a criminal," said Don. "You were treated far better than pressed men are as a rule especially those who try to break away. But I can't argue that with you. You and your companion are king's men now, or king's boys, and have to do your duty. Let's come back to to-day's work. The captain's offended, and I want to save you from trouble if I can." "It's very kind of you, sir," said Don. "Now tell me this. Do you know what you were going to do when the captain knocked you backwards?" Don was silent. "Well, I'll tell you," said the boatswain. "You were going to strike him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy. "Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say. The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that	on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop. "Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook," said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook? Let's have the simple truth. One of the Maoris stole it, and you were afraid to speak?" "I was not afraid to speak the truth, sir," said Don; "and I told it." "But that's such a wild story. Your messmate could not have driven it into a shark over the hook." "I don't know whether it was driven in over the hook, sir," replied Don; "but it stuck in the fish's back and would not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not allowed to ask questions as to what's right or wrong." "But I was treated like a criminal," said Don. "You were treated far better than pressed men are as a rule especially those who try to break away. But I can't argue that with you. You and your companion are king's men now, or king's boys, and have to do your duty. Let's come back to to-day's work. The captain's offended, and I want to save you from trouble if I can." "It's very kind of you, sir," said Don. "Now tell me this. Do you know what you were going to do when the captain knocked you backwards?" Don was silent. "Well, I'll tell you," said the boatswain. "You were going to strike him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was	Don Lavington
"You don't have to think about me."	Mrs. Rattery	we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful	situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must	suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to	"Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm	up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought	I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask, "What are you going to do while you're waiting?" "I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because there's no one else in the flat. She leaves it locked up, empty, when she goes out... and she's out half the day. I know because I sometimes ring up and can't get an answer. He may not find her for hours... It may be as long	with that and... John. She didn't know she'd hurt him until quite a time afterwards... she was in the chemist's shop having a bandage put on her head, when they told her. She cut it falling. She was in a terrible state. I sent her back in the car... it wasn't her fault." "No, it wasn't anybody's fault. It just happened." "That's it," said Tony. "It just happened... how are we going to tell Brenda?" "One of us will have to go up." "Yes... I think I shall have to stay here. I don't know why really, but there will be things to see to. It's an awful thing to ask anyone to do..." "I'll go," said Jock. "There'll be things to see to there... there's got to be an inquest the doctor says. It's purely formal, of course, but it will be ghastly for that Ripon girl. She'll have to give evidence... she was in a terrible state. I hope I was all right to her. They'd just brought John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her... I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle." The two men stood in silence. Tony said, "Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask, "What are you going to do while you're waiting?" "I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because there's no one else in the flat. She leaves it locked up, empty, when she goes out... and she's out half the day. I know because I sometimes ring up and can't get an answer. He may not find her for hours... It may be as long again as the time since it happened. That would only make it eight o'clock. It's quite likely she won't come in until eight... Think of it, all the time between now and when it happened, before Brenda hears. It's scarcely credible, is it? And then she's got to get down here. There's a train that leaves at nine something. She might get that. I wonder if I ought to have gone up too... I didn't like to leave John." (Mrs Rattery sat intent over her game, moving little groups of cards adroitly backwards and forwards about the table like shuttles across a loom; under her fingers order grew out of chaos; she established sequence and precedence; the symbols before her became coherent, interrelated.) "...Of course she may be at home when he arrives. In that case she can get the evening train she used always to come by, when she went to London for the day, before she got the flat... I'm trying to see it all, as it's going to happen, Jock coming and her surprise at seeing him, and then his telling her... It's awful for Jock... She may know at half-past five or a bit earlier." "It's a pity you don't play patience," said Mrs Rattery. "In a way I shall feel happier when she knows... it feels all wrong as it is at present, having it as a secret that Brenda doesn't know... I'm not sure how she fits in her day. I suppose her last lecture is over at about five... I wonder if she goes home first to change if she's going out to tea or cocktails. She can't sit about much in the flat, it's so small." Mrs Rattery brooded over her chequer of cards and then drew them towards her into a heap, haphazard once more and without meaning; it had nearly come to a solution that time, but for a six of diamonds out of place, and a stubbornly congested patch at one corner, where nothing could be made to move. "It's a heart-breaking game," she said. The clock struck again. "Is that only a quarter-past?... You know, I think I should have gone off my head if I were alone. It's nice of you to stay with me." "Do you play bezique?" "I'm afraid not." "Or piquet?" "No. I've never been able to learn any card game except animal snap."	Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask, "What are you going to do while you're waiting?" "I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because	A Handful Of Dust
"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"	Anne Shirley	held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver	the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could	they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables	must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said	in. "I'll take you down after milking." Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. "What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply. "I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan girl, would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynde." Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both	anything for you--if you really want me to--" "Well now, of course I do. It's terrible lonesome downstairs without you. Just go and smooth things over--that's a good girl." "Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Marilla as soon as she comes in I've repented." "That's right--that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar in and I promised not to do that." "Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne solemnly. "How would wild horses drag a secret from a person anyhow?" But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture lest Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over the banisters. "Well?" she said, going into the hall. "I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so." "Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down after milking." Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. "What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply. "I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan girl, would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynde." Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former under-stood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley of humiliation--was reveling in the thoroughness of her abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a species of positive pleasure. Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception, did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had made a very thorough apology and all resentment vanished from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart. "There, there, get up, child," she said heartily. "Of course I forgive you. I guess I was a little too hard on you, anyway. But I'm such an outspoken person. You just mustn't mind me, that's what. It can't be denied your hair is terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school with her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours when she was young, but when she grew up it darkened to a real handsome auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if yours did, too--not a mite." "Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long breath as she rose to her feet. "You have given me a hope.	the hall where he slept; once in a while he ventured uncomfortably into the parlor or sitting room when the minister came to tea. But he had never been upstairs in his own house since the spring he helped Marilla paper the spare bedroom, and that was four years ago. He tiptoed along the hall and stood for several minutes outside the door of the east gable before he summoned courage to tap on it with his fingers and then open the door to peep in. Anne was sitting on the yellow chair by the window gazing mournfully out into the garden. Very small and unhappy she looked, and Matthew's heart smote him. He softly closed the door and tiptoed over to her. "Anne," he whispered, as if afraid of being overheard, "how are you making it, Anne?" Anne smiled wanly. "Pretty well. I imagine a good deal, and that helps to pass the time. Of course, it's rather lonesome. But then, I may as well get used to that." Anne smiled again, bravely facing the long years of solitary imprisonment before her. Matthew recollected that he must say what he had come to say without loss of time, lest Marilla return prematurely. "Well now, Anne, don't you think you'd better do it and have it over with?" he whispered. "It'll have to be done sooner or later, you know, for Marilla's a dreadful deter-mined woman--dreadful determined, Anne. Do it right off, I say, and have it over." "Do you mean apologize to Mrs. Lynde?" "Yes--apologize--that's the very word," said Matthew eagerly. "Just smooth it over so to speak. That's what I was trying to get at." "I suppose I could do it to oblige you," said Anne thoughtfully. "It would be true enough to say I am sorry, because I _am_ sorry now. I wasn't a bit sorry last night. I was mad clear through, and I stayed mad all night. I know I did because I woke up three times and I was just furious every time. But this morning it was over. I wasn't in a temper anymore--and it left a dreadful sort of goneness, too. I felt so ashamed of myself. But I just couldn't think of going and telling Mrs. Lynde so. It would be so humiliating. I made up my mind I'd stay shut up here forever rather than do that. But still--I'd do anything for you--if you really want me to--" "Well now, of course I do. It's terrible lonesome downstairs without you. Just go and smooth things over--that's a good girl." "Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Marilla as soon as she comes in I've repented." "That's right--that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar in and I promised not to do that." "Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne solemnly. "How would wild horses drag a secret from a person anyhow?" But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture lest Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over the banisters. "Well?" she said, going into the hall. "I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so." "Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down after milking." Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. "What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply. "I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan girl, would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynde." Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former under-stood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley of humiliation--was reveling in the thoroughness of her abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a species of positive pleasure. Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception, did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had made a very thorough apology and all resentment vanished from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart. "There, there, get up, child," she said heartily. "Of course I forgive you. I guess I was a little too hard on you, anyway. But I'm such an outspoken person. You just mustn't mind me, that's what. It can't be denied your hair is terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school with her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours when she was young, but when she grew up it darkened to a real handsome auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if yours did, too--not a mite." "Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long breath as she rose to her feet. "You have given me a hope. I shall always feel that you are a benefactor. Oh, I could endure anything if I only thought my hair would be a handsome auburn when I grew up. It would be so much easier to be good if one's hair was a handsome auburn, don't you think? And now may I go out into your garden and sit on that bench under the apple-trees while you and Marilla are talking? There is so much more scope for imagination out there." "Laws, yes, run along, child. And you can pick a bouquet of them white June lilies over in the corner if you like." As the door closed behind Anne Mrs. Lynde got briskly up to light a lamp. "She's a real odd little thing. Take this chair, Marilla; it's easier than the one you've got; I just keep that for the hired boy to sit on. Yes, she certainly is an odd child, but there is something kind of taking about her after all. I don't feel so surprised at you and Matthew keeping her as I did--nor so sorry for you, either. She may turn out all right. Of course, she has a queer way of expressing herself--a little too--well, too kind of forcible, you know; but she'll likely get over that now that she's come to live among civilized folks. And then, her temper's pretty quick, I guess; but there's one comfort, a child that has a quick temper, just blaze up and cool down, ain't never likely to be sly or deceitful. Preserve me from a sly child, that's what. On the whole, Marilla, I kind of like her." When Marilla went home Anne came out of the fragrant twilight of the orchard with a sheaf of white narcissi in her hands. "I apologized pretty well, didn't I?" she said proudly as they went down the lane. "I thought since I had to do it I might as well do it thoroughly." "You did it thoroughly, all right enough," was Marilla's comment. Marilla was dismayed at finding herself inclined to laugh over the recollection. She had also an uneasy feeling that she ought to scold Anne for apologizing so well; but then, that was ridiculous! She compromised with her conscience by saying severely: "I hope you won't have occasion to make many more such apologies. I hope you'll try to control your temper now, Anne." "That	"Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Marilla as soon as she comes in I've repented." "That's right--that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar in and I promised not to do that." "Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne solemnly. "How would wild horses drag a secret from a person anyhow?" But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture lest Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over the banisters. "Well?" she said, going into the hall. "I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so." "Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down after milking." Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. "What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply. "I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan girl, would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynde." Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former under-stood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley of humiliation--was reveling in the thoroughness of her abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a species of positive pleasure. Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception, did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had made a very thorough apology and all resentment vanished from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart. "There, there, get up, child," she said heartily. "Of course I forgive you. I guess I was a little too hard on you, anyway. But I'm such an outspoken person. You just mustn't mind me, that's what. It can't be denied your hair is terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school with her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours when she was young, but when she grew up it darkened to a real handsome auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if yours did, too--not a mite." "Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long breath as she rose to her feet. "You have given me a hope. I shall always feel that you are a benefactor. Oh, I could endure anything if I only thought my hair would be a handsome auburn when I grew up. It would be so much easier to be good if one's hair was a handsome auburn, don't you think? And now may I go out into your garden and sit on that bench under the apple-trees while you and Marilla are talking? There is so much more scope for imagination out there." "Laws, yes, run along, child. And you can pick a bouquet of them white June lilies over in the corner if you like." As the door closed behind Anne Mrs. Lynde got briskly up to light a lamp. "She's a real odd little thing. Take this chair, Marilla; it's easier than the one you've got; I just keep that for the	Anne Of Green Gables
"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."	Katharine Hilbery	had stuck to her memory:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>Thus occupied, she did not	to herself some lines which had stuck to her memory:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>Thus occupied, she did not see Denham, and he had	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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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	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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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	greenish and yellowish artificial light were being poured into an atmosphere which, in country lanes, would now have been soft with the smoke of wood fires; and on both sides of the road the shop windows were full of sparkling chains and highly polished leather cases, which stood upon shelves made of thick plate-glass. None of these different objects was seen separately by Denham, but from all of them he drew an impression of stir and cheerfulness. Thus it came about that he saw Katharine Hilbery coming towards him, and looked straight at her, as if she were 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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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	serious, and rather less dictatorial at home, for he was apt to hear Mary laughing at him, and telling him, as she was fond of doing, that he knew nothing at all about anything. She made him, also, take an interest in public questions, for which she had a natural liking; and was in process of turning him from Tory to Radical, after a course of public meetings, which began by boring him acutely, and ended by exciting him even more than they excited her. But he was reserved; when ideas started up in his mind, he divided them automatically into those he could discuss with Mary, and those he must keep for himself. She knew this and it interested her, for she was accustomed to find young men very ready to talk about themselves, and had come to listen to them as one listens to children, without any thought of herself. But with Ralph, she had very little of this maternal feeling, and, in consequence, a much keener sense of her own individuality. Late one afternoon Ralph stepped along the Strand to an interview with a lawyer upon business. The afternoon light was almost over, and already streams of greenish and yellowish artificial light were being poured into an atmosphere which, in country lanes, would now have been soft with the smoke of wood fires; and on both sides of the road the shop windows were full of sparkling chains and highly polished leather cases, which stood upon shelves made of thick plate-glass. None of these different objects was seen separately by Denham, but from all of them he drew an impression of stir and cheerfulness. Thus it came about that he saw Katharine Hilbery coming towards him, and looked straight at her, as if she were 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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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	who took their own work more lightly, and, if they foretold his advancement, it was not altogether sympathetically. Indeed, he appeared to be rather a hard and self-sufficient young man, with a queer temper, and manners that were uncompromisingly abrupt, who was consumed with a desire to get on in the world, which was natural, these critics thought, in a man of no means, but not engaging. The young men in the office had a perfect right to these opinions, because Denham showed no particular desire for their friendship. He liked them well enough, but shut them up in that compartment of life which was devoted to work. Hitherto, indeed, he had found little difficulty in arranging his life as methodically as he arranged his expenditure, but about this time he began to encounter experiences which were not so easy to classify. Mary Datchet had begun this confusion two years ago by bursting into laughter at some remark of his, almost the first time they met. She could not explain why it was. She thought him quite astonishingly odd. When he knew her well enough to tell her how he spent Monday and Wednesday and Saturday, she was still more amused; she laughed till he laughed, too, without knowing why. It seemed to her very odd that he should know as much about breeding bulldogs as any man in England; that he had a collection of wild flowers found near London; and his weekly visit to old Miss Trotter at Ealing, who was an authority upon the science of Heraldry, never failed to excite her laughter. She wanted to know everything, even the kind of cake which the old lady supplied on these occasions; and their summer excursions to churches in the neighborhood of London for the purpose of taking rubbings of the brasses became most important festivals, from the interest she took in them. In six months she knew more about his odd friends and hobbies than his own brothers and sisters knew, after living with him all his life; and Ralph found this very pleasant, though disordering, for his own view of himself had always been profoundly serious. Certainly it was very pleasant to be with Mary Datchet and to become, directly the door was shut, quite a different sort of person, eccentric and lovable, with scarcely any likeness to the self most people knew. He became less serious, and rather less dictatorial at home, for he was apt to hear Mary laughing at him, and telling him, as she was fond of doing, that he knew nothing at all about anything. She made him, also, take an interest in public questions, for which she had a natural liking; and was in process of turning him from Tory to Radical, after a course of public meetings, which began by boring him acutely, and ended by exciting him even more than they excited her. But he was reserved; when ideas started up in his mind, he divided them automatically into those he could discuss with Mary, and those he must keep for himself. She knew this and it interested her, for she was accustomed to find young men very ready to talk about themselves, and had come to listen to them as one listens to children, without any thought of herself. But with Ralph, she had very little of this maternal feeling, and, in consequence, a much keener sense of her own individuality. Late one afternoon Ralph stepped along the Strand to an interview with a lawyer upon business. The afternoon light was almost over, and already streams of greenish and yellowish artificial light were being poured into an atmosphere which, in country lanes, would now have been soft with the smoke of wood fires; and on both sides of the road the shop windows were full of sparkling chains and highly polished leather cases, which stood upon shelves made of thick plate-glass. None of these different objects was seen separately by Denham, but from all of them he drew an impression of stir and cheerfulness. Thus it came about that he saw Katharine Hilbery coming towards him, and looked straight at her, as if she were 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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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. "But only a week ago you were saying the opposite." 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	the purpose of taking rubbings of the brasses became most important festivals, from the interest she took in them. In six months she knew more about his odd friends and hobbies than his own brothers and sisters knew, after living with him all his life; and Ralph found this very pleasant, though disordering, for his own view of himself had always been profoundly serious. Certainly it was very pleasant to be with Mary Datchet and to become, directly the door was shut, quite a different sort of person, eccentric and lovable, with scarcely any likeness to the self most people knew. He became less serious, and rather less dictatorial at home, for he was apt to hear Mary laughing at him, and telling him, as she was fond of doing, that he knew nothing at all about anything. She made him, also, take an interest in public questions, for which she had a natural liking; and was in process of turning him from Tory to Radical, after a course of public meetings, which began by boring him acutely, and ended by exciting him even more than they excited her. But he was reserved; when ideas started up in his mind, he divided them automatically into those he could discuss with Mary, and those he must keep for himself. She knew this and it interested her, for she was accustomed to find young men very ready to talk about themselves, and had come to listen to them as one listens to children, without any thought of herself. But with Ralph, she had very little of this maternal feeling, and, in consequence, a much keener sense of her own individuality. Late one afternoon Ralph stepped along the Strand to an interview with a lawyer upon business. The afternoon light was almost over, and already streams of greenish and yellowish artificial light were being poured into an atmosphere which, in country lanes, would now have been soft with the smoke of wood fires; and on both sides of the road the shop windows were full of sparkling chains and highly polished leather cases, which stood upon shelves made of thick plate-glass. None of these different objects was seen separately by Denham, but from all of them he drew an impression of stir and cheerfulness. Thus it came about that he saw Katharine Hilbery coming towards him, and looked straight at her, as if she were 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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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."	Night And Day
"Miss Schlegel"	Henry	world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I	not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on	Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and	which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said,	of them. "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren t offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was	will be to-morrow afternoon, I ll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you yes or no." "Right. The dining-room." And they began their survey. The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said Margaret, sinking into one of them. "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren t offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was a moment s pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. "Good-bye," she continued. "You will have a letter from me--I am going back to Swanage to-morrow." "Thank you." "Good-bye, and it s you I thank." "I may order the motor round, mayn t I?" "That would be most kind." "I wish I had written. Ought I to have written?" "Not at all." "There s just one question--" She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered as they parted. They parted without shaking hands; she had kept the interview, for his sake, in tints of the quietest grey. She thrilled with happiness ere she reached her house. Others had loved her in the past, if one apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but the others had been "ninnies"--young men who had nothing to do, old men who could find nobody better.	that she supposed herself to have already lost--not youth s creative power, but its self-confidence and optimism. He was so sure that it was a very pleasant world. His complexion was robust, his hair had receded but not thinned, the thick moustache and the eyes that Helen had compared to brandy-balls had an agreeable menace in them, whether they were turned towards the slums or towards the stars. Some day--in the millennium--there may be no need for his type. At present, homage is due to it from those who think themselves superior, and who possibly are. "At all events you responded to my telegram promptly," he remarked. "Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it." "I m glad you don t despise the goods of this world." "Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that." "I am glad, very glad," he repeated, suddenly softening and turning to her, as if the remark had pleased him. "There is so much cant talked in would-be intellectual circles. I am glad you don t share it. Self-denial is all very well as a means of strengthening the character. But I can t stand those people who run down comforts. They have usually some axe to grind. Can you?" "Comforts are of two kinds," said Margaret, who was keeping herself in hand--" "those we can share with others, like fire, weather, or music; and those we can t--food, food, for instance. It depends." "I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn t like to think that you--" He bent nearer; the sentence died unfinished. Margaret s head turned very stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour was half-past twelve, and the car was passing by the stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was so charged with emotion that people only seemed to exist on her account, and she was surprised that Crane did not realise this, and turn round. Idiot though she might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more--how should one put it?--more psychological than usual. Always a good judge of character for business purposes, he seemed this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside neatness, obedience, and decision. "I want to go over the whole house," she announced when they arrived. "As soon as I get back to Swanage, which will be to-morrow afternoon, I ll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you yes or no." "Right. The dining-room." And they began their survey. The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said Margaret, sinking into one of them. "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren t offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was a moment s pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. "Good-bye," she continued. "You will have a letter from me--I am going back to Swanage to-morrow." "Thank you." "Good-bye, and it s you I thank." "I may order the motor round, mayn t I?" "That would be most kind." "I wish I had written. Ought I to have written?" "Not at all." "There s just one question--" She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered as they parted. They parted without shaking hands; she had kept the interview, for his sake, in tints of the quietest grey. She thrilled with happiness ere she reached her house. Others had loved her in the past, if one apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but the others had been "ninnies"--young men who had nothing to do, old men who could find nobody better. And she had often loved, too, but only so far as the facts of sex demanded: mere yearnings for the masculine sex to be dismissed for what they were worth, with a sigh. Never before had her personality been touched. She was not young or very rich, and it amazed her that a man of any standing should take her seriously. As she sat, trying to do accounts in her empty house, amidst beautiful pictures and noble books, waves of emotion broke, as if a tide of passion was flowing through the night air. She shook her head, tried to concentrate her attention, and failed. In vain did she repeat: "But I ve been through this sort of thing before." She had never been through it; the big machinery, as opposed to the little, had been set in motion, and the idea that Mr. Wilcox loved, obsessed her before she came to love him in return. She would come to no decision yet. "Oh, sir, this is so sudden"--that prudish phrase exactly expressed her when her time came. Premonitions are not preparation. She must examine more closely her own nature and his; she must talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been a strange love-scene--the central radiance unacknowledged from first to last. She, in his place, would have said Ich liebe dich, but perhaps it was not his habit to open the heart. He might have done it if she had pressed him--as a matter of duty, perhaps; England expects every man to open his heart once; but the effort would have jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it, should he lose those defences that he had chosen to raise against the world. He must never be bothered with emotional talk, or with a display of sympathy. He was an elderly man now, and it would be futile and impudent to correct him. Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost; surveying the scene, thought Margaret, without one hint of bitterness. CHAPTER XIX If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps the wisest course would be to take him to the final section of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their summit, a few miles to the east of Corfe. Then system after system of our island would roll together under his feet. Beneath him is the valley of the Frome, and all	and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said Margaret, sinking into one of them. "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren t offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was a moment s pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. "Good-bye," she continued. "You will have a letter from me--I am going back to Swanage to-morrow." "Thank you." "Good-bye, and it s you I thank." "I may order the motor round, mayn t I?" "That would be most kind." "I wish I had written. Ought I to have written?" "Not at all." "There s just one question--" She shook her head. He looked a	Howards End
"Before either."	Basil Hallward	the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come	out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you,	the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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	a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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	saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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	except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn t really want it, and I really do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray; "and I don t allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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,	will mock me some day mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. "This is your doing, Harry," said the painter bitterly. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray that is all." "It is not." "If it is not, what have I to do with it?" "You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered. "I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry s answer. "Harry, I can t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them." Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. "Don t, Basil, don t!" he cried. "It would be murder!" "I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you would." "Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that." "Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?" "I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge of the complex. But I don t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn t really want it, and I really do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray; "and I don t allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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,	rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn t really want it, and I really do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray; "and I don t allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.	No speaker	don't think now as--" "Well?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked	begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--" "Well?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money,	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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"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,	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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"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,	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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked	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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man,	him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited. "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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again." "Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been robbed, and that Don--my boy--oh, no, no, no; say it is not true." Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman's manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child. "I say it is not true," she cried. "You undertook to be a father to my poor boy, and now you charge him with having robbed you." "Laura, be calm," said the old merchant, quietly; "and you had better take Kitty back home and wait." "You have always been too stern and harsh with the poor boy," continued Mrs Lavington, without heeding him. "I was foolish ever to come and trust 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	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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again." "Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been robbed, and that Don--my boy--oh, no, no, no; say it is not true." Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman's manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child. "I say it is not true," she cried. "You undertook to be a father to my poor	Don Lavington
he demanded impetuously.	No speaker	foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his	examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About	from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here!	we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when	to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?” He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse. “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.” Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering. “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I	he was a German spy during the war.” One of the men nodded in confirmation. “I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us positively. “Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.” She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world. The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?” He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse. “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.” Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering. “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.” “Has it?” “A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—” “You told us.” We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors. There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to	came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.” “You’ve dyed your hair since then,” remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” “Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. “Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.” “There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with anybody.” “Who doesn’t?” I inquired. “Gatsby. Somebody told me—” The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially. “Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.” A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly. “I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s more that he was a German spy during the war.” One of the men nodded in confirmation. “I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us positively. “Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.” She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world. The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?” He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse. “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.” Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering. “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.” “Has it?” “A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—” “You told us.” We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors. There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn. I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and profound. At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled. “Your face is familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?” “Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.” “I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning. “Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.” “What time?” “Any time that suits you best.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled. “Having a gay time now?” she inquired. “Much better.” I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.” For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand. “I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly. “What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” “I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.” He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and	supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?” He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse. “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.” Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering. “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.” “Has it?” “A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—” “You told us.” We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors. There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage	The Great Gatsby
said he,	No speaker	to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when	I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw	prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place	dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be	have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say;	remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?" "I will tell you," replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable." "I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come and thank you when I have obtained what I am seeking." After these words, to which the dervish made no other answer than that he should be overjoyed to see him again, the prince mounted his horse, took leave of the dervish with a respectful salute, and threw the bowl before him. The bowl rolled away with as much swiftness as when Prince Bahman first hurled it from his hand, which obliged him to put his horse to the same pace to avoid losing sight of it, and when it had reached the foot of the mountain it stopped. The prince alighted from his horse, laid the bridle on his neck, and having first surveyed the mountain and seen	give him information of the place he was in search of, stopped when he came near the dervish, alighted, in conformity to the directions which the devout woman had given the Princess Periezade, and leading his horse by the bridle, advanced toward him and saluting him, said: "God prolong your days, good father, and grant you the accomplishment of your desires." The dervish returned the prince's salutation, but so unintelligibly that he could not understand one word he said and Prince Bahman, perceiving that this difficulty proceeded from the dervish's whiskers hanging over his mouth, and unwilling to go any further without the instructions he wanted, pulled out a pair of scissors he had about him, and having tied his horse to a branch of the tree, said: "Good dervish, I want to have some talk with you, but your whiskers prevent my understanding what you say; and if you will consent, I will cut off some part of them and of your eyebrows, which disfigure you so much that you look more like a bear than a man." The dervish did not oppose the offer, and when the prince had cut off as much hair as he thought fit, he perceived that the dervish had a good complexion, and that he was not as old as he seemed. "Good dervish," said he, "if I had a glass I would show you how young you look: you are now a man, but before, nobody could tell what you were." The kind behaviour of Prince Bahman made the dervish smile and return his compliment. "Sir," said he, "whoever you are, I am obliged by the good office you have performed, and am ready to show my gratitude by doing anything in my power for you. You must have alighted here upon some account or other. Tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to serve you." "Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?" "I will tell you," replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable." "I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come and thank you when I have obtained what I am seeking." After these words, to which the dervish made no other answer than that he should be overjoyed to see him again, the prince mounted his horse, took leave of the dervish with a respectful salute, and threw the bowl before him. The bowl rolled away with as much swiftness as when Prince Bahman first hurled it from his hand, which obliged him to put his horse to the same pace to avoid losing sight of it, and when it had reached the foot of the mountain it stopped. The prince alighted from his horse, laid the bridle on his neck, and having first surveyed the mountain and seen the black stones, began to ascend, but had not gone four steps before he heard the voices mentioned by the dervish, though he could see nobody. Some said: "Where is that fool going? Where is he going? What would he have? Do not let him pass." Others: "Stop him, catch him, kill him:" and others with a voice like thunder: "Thief! assassin! murderer!" while some in a gibing tone cried: "No, no, do not hurt him; let the pretty fellow pass, the cage and bird are kept for him." Notwithstanding all these troublesome voices, Prince Bahman ascended with resolution for some time, but the voices redoubled with so loud a din, both behind 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	they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?" "I will tell you," replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable." "I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come and thank you when I have obtained what I am seeking." After these words, to which the dervish made no other answer than that he should be overjoyed to see him again, the prince mounted his horse, took leave of the dervish with a respectful salute, and threw the bowl before him. The bowl rolled away with as much swiftness as when Prince Bahman first hurled it from his hand, which obliged him to put his horse to the same pace to avoid losing sight of it, and when it	Arabian Nights (1)
"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"	Fanny Price	she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction,	him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple	Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to	my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs.	Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real	she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?" "She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I	know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?" "If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not." "I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny." "If you cannot do without me, ma'am" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone. "But my mother will have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am." "That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all." There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment I have something to say to you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?" "She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five only five to be sitting round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say." Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again. "The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give _you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle _that_." "Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else." "And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen, and take your things accordingly." Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own	will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five only five to be sitting round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say." Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again. "The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give	Mansfield Park
"Help, help!"	Piglet	moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a	and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered	but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the	shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great	there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began	Fond of Pigs, did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said	sort of way, when suddenly he remembered. He had put it into the Cunning Trap to catch the Heffalump. "Bother!" said Pooh. "It all comes of trying to be kind to Heffalumps." And he got back into bed. But he couldn't sleep. The more he tried to sleep, the more he couldn't. He tried Counting Sheep, which is sometimes a good way of getting to sleep, and, as that was no good, he tried counting Heffalumps. And that was worse. Because every Heffalump that he counted was making straight for a pot of Pooh's honey, _and eating it all_. For some minutes he lay there miserably, but when the five hundred and eighty-seventh Heffalump was licking its jaws, and saying to itself, "Very good honey this, I don't know when I've tasted better," Pooh could bear it no longer. He jumped out of bed, he ran out of the house, and he ran straight to the Six Pine Trees. The Sun was still in bed, but there was a lightness in the sky over the Hundred Acre Wood which seemed to show that it was waking up and would soon be kicking off the clothes. In the half-light the Pine Trees looked cold and lonely, and the Very Deep Pit seemed deeper than it was, and Pooh's jar of honey at the bottom was something mysterious, a shape and no more. But as he got nearer to it his nose told him that it was indeed honey, and his tongue came out and began to polish up his mouth, ready for it. "Bother!" said Pooh, as he got his nose inside the jar. "A Heffalump has been eating it!" And then he thought a little and said, "Oh, no, _I_ did. I forgot." Indeed, he had eaten most of it. But there was a little left at the very bottom of the jar, and he pushed his head right in, and began to lick.... By and by Piglet woke up. As soon as he woke he said to himself, "Oh!" Then he said bravely, "Yes," and then, still more bravely, "Quite so." But he didn't feel very brave, for the word which was really jiggeting about in his brain was "Heffalumps." What was a Heffalump like? Was it Fierce? _Did_ it come when you whistled? And _how_ did it come? Was it Fond of Pigs at all? If it was Fond of Pigs, did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being a Bear of Very Little Brain. So he sang _Cottleston Pie_ instead: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie._"" That was the first verse. When he had finished it, Eeyore didn't actually say that he didn't like it, so Pooh very kindly sang the second verse to him: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fish can't whistle and neither can I. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" Eeyore still said nothing at all, so Pooh hummed the third verse quietly to himself: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, Why does a chicken, I don't know why. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" "That's right," said Eeyore. "Sing. Umty-tiddly, umty-too. Here we go gathering Nuts and May. Enjoy yourself." "I am," said Pooh. "Some can," said Eeyore. "Why, what's the matter?" "_Is_ anything the matter?" "You seem so sad, Eeyore." "Sad? Why should I be sad? It's my birthday. The happiest day of the year." "Your birthday?" said Pooh in great surprise. "Of course it is. Can't you see? Look at all the presents I have had." He waved a foot from side to side. "Look at the birthday cake. Candles and pink sugar." Pooh looked--first to the right and then to the left. "Presents?" said Pooh. "Birthday cake?" said Pooh. "_Where?_" "Can't you see them?" "No," said Pooh. "Neither can I," said Eeyore. "Joke," he explained. "Ha ha!" Pooh scratched his head, being a little puzzled by all this. "But is it really your birthday?" he asked. "It is." "Oh! Well, Many	he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_	Winnie The Pooh
"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."	Hercule Poirot	tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up	discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly	Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told	sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay." "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to	already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay." "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it." "What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon	removed. Six persons had taken coffee, and six cups were duly found. I had to confess myself mistaken." "Then I discovered that I had been guilty of a very grave oversight. Coffee had been brought in for seven persons, not six, for Dr. Bauerstein had been there that evening. This changed the face of the whole affair, for there was now one cup missing. The servants noticed nothing, since Annie, the housemaid, who took in the coffee, brought in seven cups, not knowing that Mr. Inglethorp never drank it, whereas Dorcas, who cleared them away the following morning, found six as usual or strictly speaking she found five, the sixth being the one found broken in Mrs. Inglethorp's room." "I was confident that the missing cup was that of Mademoiselle Cynthia. I had an additional reason for that belief in the fact that all the cups found contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never took in her coffee. My attention was attracted by the story of Annie about some salt' on the tray of cocoa which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. I accordingly secured a sample of that cocoa, and sent it to be analysed." "But that had already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay." "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it." "What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick." "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the cocoa contained no strychnine. The coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been administered between seven and nine o'clock that evening. What third medium was there a medium so suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?" Poirot looked round the room, and then answered himself impressively. "Her medicine!" "Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her tonic?" I cried. "There was no need to introduce it. It was already there in the mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine prescribed	She therefore opened the desk, and in searching for the stamps she came across something else that slip of paper which Dorcas saw in her hand, and which assuredly was never meant for Mrs. Inglethorp's eyes. On the other hand, Mrs. Cavendish believed that the slip of paper to which her mother-in-law clung so tenaciously was a written proof of her own husband's infidelity. She demanded it from Mrs. Inglethorp who assured her, quite truly, that it had nothing to do with that matter. Mrs. Cavendish did not believe her. She thought that Mrs. Inglethorp was shielding her stepson. Now Mrs. Cavendish is a very resolute woman, and, behind her mask of reserve, she was madly jealous of her husband. She determined to get hold of that paper at all costs, and in this resolution chance came to her aid. She happened to pick up the key of Mrs. Inglethorp's despatch-case, which had been lost that morning. She knew that her mother-in-law invariably kept all important papers in this particular case." "Mrs. Cavendish, therefore, made her plans as only a woman driven desperate through jealousy could have done. Some time in the evening she unbolted the door leading into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room. Possibly she applied oil to the hinges, for I found that it opened quite noiselessly when I tried it. She put off her project until the early hours of the morning as being safer, since the servants were accustomed to hearing her move about her room at that time. She dressed completely in her land kit, and made her way quietly through Mademoiselle Cynthia's room into that of Mrs. Inglethorp." He paused a moment, and Cynthia interrupted: "But I should have woken up if anyone had come through my room?" "Not if you were drugged, mademoiselle." "Drugged?" "_Mais, oui!_" "You remember" he addressed us collectively again "that through all the tumult and noise next door Mademoiselle Cynthia slept. That admitted of two possibilities. Either her sleep was feigned which I did not believe or her unconsciousness was indeed by artificial means." "With this latter idea in my mind, I examined all the coffee-cups most carefully, remembering that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had brought Mademoiselle Cynthia her coffee the night before. I took a sample from each cup, and had them analysed with no result. I had counted the cups carefully, in the event of one having been removed. Six persons had taken coffee, and six cups were duly found. I had to confess myself mistaken." "Then I discovered that I had been guilty of a very grave oversight. Coffee had been brought in for seven persons, not six, for Dr. Bauerstein had been there that evening. This changed the face of the whole affair, for there was now one cup missing. The servants noticed nothing, since Annie, the housemaid, who took in the coffee, brought in seven cups, not knowing that Mr. Inglethorp never drank it, whereas Dorcas, who cleared them away the following morning, found six as usual or strictly speaking she found five, the sixth being the one found broken in Mrs. Inglethorp's room." "I was confident that the missing cup was that of Mademoiselle Cynthia. I had an additional reason for that belief in the fact that all the cups found contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never took in her coffee. My attention was attracted by the story of Annie about some salt' on the tray of cocoa which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. I accordingly secured a sample of that cocoa, and sent it to be analysed." "But that had already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay." "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it." "What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick." "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the cocoa contained no strychnine. The coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been administered between seven and nine o'clock that evening. What third medium was there a medium so suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?" Poirot looked round the room, and then answered himself impressively. "Her medicine!" "Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her tonic?" I cried. "There was no need to introduce it. It was already there in the mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to you, I will read you an extract from a book on dispensing which I found in the Dispensary of the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:" "The following prescription has become famous in text books:" Strychninae Sulph. . . . . . 1 gr. Potass Bromide . . . . . . . 3vi Aqua ad. . . . . . . . . . . . . 3viii Fiat Mistura _This solution deposits in a few hours the greater part of the strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide in transparent crystals. A lady in England lost her life by taking a similar mixture: the precipitated strychnine collected at the bottom, and in taking the last dose she swallowed nearly all of it!_ "Now there was, of course, no bromide in Dr. Wilkins' prescription, but you will remember that I mentioned an empty box of bromide powders. One or two of those powders introduced into the full bottle of medicine would effectually precipitate the strychnine, as the book describes, and cause it to be taken in the last dose. You will learn later that the person who usually poured out Mrs. Inglethorp's medicine was always extremely careful not to shake the bottle, but to leave the sediment at the bottom of it undisturbed." "Throughout the case, there have been evidences that the tragedy was intended to take place on Monday evening. On that day, Mrs. Inglethorp's bell wire was neatly cut, and on Monday evening Mademoiselle Cynthia was spending the night with friends, so that Mrs. Inglethorp would have been quite alone in the right wing, completely shut off from help of any kind, and would have died, in all probability, before medical aid could have been summoned. But in her hurry to be in time for the village entertainment Mrs. Inglethorp forgot to take her medicine, and the next day she lunched away from home, so that the last and fatal dose was actually taken twenty-four hours later than had been anticipated by the murderer; and it is owing to that delay that the final proof the last link of the chain is now in my hands." Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper. "A letter in the murderer's own hand-writing, _mes amis!_ Had it been a little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp,	in the fact that all the cups found contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never took in her coffee. My attention was attracted by the story of Annie about some salt' on the tray of cocoa which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. I accordingly secured a sample of that cocoa, and sent it to be analysed." "But that had already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay." "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it." "What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick." "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
replied Oliver;	No speaker	"how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about	rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour	like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to	Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol	an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist. Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. "What's set you a snivelling now?" "Not _you_," replied Oliver, sharply. "There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!" "Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!" And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion. "Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in	as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration. That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery. And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist. Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. "What's set you a snivelling now?" "Not _you_," replied Oliver, sharply. "There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!" "Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!" And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion. "Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: "Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un." "What did you say?" inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly. "A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us," replied Noah, coolly. "And it's a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn't it?" Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground. A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his	you, sir" replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir." "Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard. CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses. For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be quite cheerful and contented conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration. That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery. And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist. Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. "What's set you a snivelling now?" "Not _you_," replied Oliver, sharply. "There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!" "Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!" And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion. "Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: "Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un." "What did you say?" inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly. "A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us," replied Noah, coolly. "And it's a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn't it?" Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground. A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known before. "He'll murder me!" blubbered Noah. "Charlotte! missis! Here's the new boy a murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad! Char lotte!" Noah's shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to come further down. "Oh, you little wretch!" screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training. "Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!" And between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society. Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him behind. This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears. "Bless her, she's going off!" said Charlotte. "A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!" "Oh! Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. "Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!" "Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am," was the reply. "I only hope this'll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma'am, when I come in." "Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the charity-boy. Noah, whose top waistcoat-button	which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses. For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be quite cheerful and contented conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration. That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery. And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist. Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. "What's set you a snivelling now?" "Not _you_," replied Oliver, sharply. "There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!" "Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!" And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion. "Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: "Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un." "What did you say?" inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly. "A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us," replied Noah,	Oliver Twist
"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"	Jem Wimble	mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have	faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to	Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What	whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world."	I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know	who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side,	running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy. "Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say. The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as	dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting	Don Lavington
said Jem, quietly.	No speaker	that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another	slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think	not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over	tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat,"	great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and	as their steps invaded the solitudes where they indulged in their hunt for food. When they encountered a stream, which came foaming and plunging down from the mountain, after carefully trying its depth, Ngati still led the way. Hour after hour they tramped wearily on through the darkness, Ngati rarely speaking, but pausing now and then to help them over some rugged place. Everything in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries. "There now," said Jem. "Why, it's all right, Mas' Don; 'tarn't tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it's salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks'll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don't. What's them things like?" "Like very ripe apples, Jem, or medlars," replied Don, who had been tasting the fruit carefully. "That'll do, then. Pity we can't find some more of them eggs, and don't light a fire to cook 'em. I say, Ngati." The Maori looked at him inquiringly. "More, more," said Jem, holding up one of the eggs, and pointing to the ferny thicket. "No, no," said Ngati, shaking his head. "Moa, moa." He stooped down and held his hands apart in different directions, as if he were describing the shape of a moderate-sized oval pumpkin. Then, rising erect, he raised one hand to the	a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don." "Yes." "But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The warning came from Ngati; for just then the breeze seemed to sweep the faint roar of the torrent aside, and the shouting of the Maoris came loud and clear. "They're over the river," said Jem excitedly. "Well, I've got a spear in my hand, and I mean to die fighting for the sake of old Bristol and my little wife." CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. IN THE WOODS. "They're not over the river, Jem," said Don, impatiently. "I wish you wouldn't always look on the worst side of everything." "That's what your Uncle Josiah allus does with the sugar, Mas' Don. If the foots was werry treacley when he had a hogshead turned up to look at the bottom first, he allus used to say as all the rest was poor quality." "We're not dealing with sugar now." "No, Mas' Don; this here arn't half so sweet. I wish it was." "Hssh!" came from Ngati again. And for the rest of the night they followed him in silence along ravines, over rugged patches of mountain side, with the great fronds of the tree-ferns brushing their faces, and nocturnal birds rushing away from them as their steps invaded the solitudes where they indulged in their hunt for food. When they encountered a stream, which came foaming and plunging down from the mountain, after carefully trying its depth, Ngati still led the way. Hour after hour they tramped wearily on through the darkness, Ngati rarely speaking, but pausing now and then to help them over some rugged place. Everything in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries. "There now," said Jem. "Why, it's all right, Mas' Don; 'tarn't tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it's salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks'll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don't. What's them things like?" "Like very ripe apples, Jem, or medlars," replied Don, who had been tasting the fruit carefully. "That'll do, then. Pity we can't find some more of them eggs, and don't light a fire to cook 'em. I say, Ngati." The Maori looked at him inquiringly. "More, more," said Jem, holding up one of the eggs, and pointing to the ferny thicket. "No, no," said Ngati, shaking his head. "Moa, moa." He stooped down and held his hands apart in different directions, as if he were describing the shape of a moderate-sized oval pumpkin. Then, rising erect, he raised one hand to the full extent of his arm, bending the fingers so as to imitate the shape of a bird's head, pressed his head against his arm, placed the left arm close to his body and a little forward, and then began to stalk about slowly. "Moa, moa," he said, dropping his arm again, and pointing to the eggs, "Kiwi, kiwi." "Kiwi, kiwi," said Jem. "Can't make out what he means, Mas' Don; but it don't matter. Shall we suck the eggs raw?" He made a gesture as if to break one, but Ngati snatched it away. "No, no!" he cried sharply, and snatched the other away. "Pig!" ejaculated Jem. "Well, I do call that greedy." But if the chief was greedy over the eggs, which he secured in a roughly-made bag, of palm strips, ingeniously woven, he was generous enough over the fruit and palm, upon which they made a fair breakfast; after which Ngati examined Jem's wounds, and then signed to him to come down to the side of the stream, seizing him by the wrist, and half dragging him in his energetic way. "Is he going to drown me, Mas' Don?" "No, no, Jem. I know: he wants to bathe your wound." So it proved, for Ngati made him lie down by a pool, and tenderly washed the injuries, ending by applying some cool bruised leaves to the places, and binding them up with wild flax. This done, he examined Don's head, smiling with satisfaction because it was no worse. "Say, Mas' Don, it do feel comf'table. Why, he's quite a doctor, eh?" "What?" continued Jem, staring, as Ngati made signs. "He wants you to bathe his wounds. Your arm's painful, Jem; I'll do it." Ngati lay down by the pool, and, pulling up some moss, Don bathed a couple of ugly gashes and a stab, that was roughly plugged with fibre. The wounds were so bad that it was a wonder to both that the great fellow could keep about; but he appeared to bear them patiently enough, smiling with satisfaction as his attendant carefully washed them, and in imitation of what he had seen, applied bruised leaves and moss, and finally bound them up with native flax. Don shuddered more than once as he performed his task, and was glad when it was over, Jem looking on calmly the while. "Why, Mas' Don, a chap at home would	in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries. "There now," said Jem. "Why, it's all right, Mas' Don; 'tarn't tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it's salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks'll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don't. What's them things like?" "Like very ripe apples, Jem, or medlars," replied Don, who had been tasting the fruit carefully. "That'll do, then. Pity we can't find some more of them eggs, and don't light a fire to cook 'em. I say, Ngati." The Maori looked	Don Lavington
"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"	The General	good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I	by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come	larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him	and some wine, and was charged for the idyllic repast a thaler and a half. Not until eleven o clock did I return home to find a summons awaiting me from the General. Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; each of which contained two rooms. The first (the larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him and to the Baroness?" "No, I have not." "But I understand that you simply terrified them, my good sir?" shouted the General. "Not in the least," I replied. "You must know that when I was in Berlin I frequently used to hear the Berliners repeat, and repellently prolong, a certain	of her seat, I saw her rise and set out with the children towards the hotel. At the portico I caught up to her. "I have perpetrated the the piece of idiocy," I said as I came level with her. "Have you? Then you can take the consequences," she replied without so much as looking at me. Then she moved towards the staircase. I spent the rest of the evening walking in the park. Thence I passed into the forest, and walked on until I found myself in a neighbouring principality. At a wayside restaurant I partook of an omelette and some wine, and was charged for the idyllic repast a thaler and a half. Not until eleven o clock did I return home to find a summons awaiting me from the General. Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; each of which contained two rooms. The first (the larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him and to the Baroness?" "No, I have not." "But I understand that you simply terrified them, my good sir?" shouted the General. "Not in the least," I replied. "You must know that when I was in Berlin I frequently used to hear the Berliners repeat, and repellently prolong, a certain phrase namely," Ja wohl! ; "and, happening to meet this couple in the carriage-drive, I found, for some reason or another, that this phrase suddenly recurred to my memory, and exercised a rousing effect upon my spirits. Moreover, on the three previous occasions that I have met the Baroness she has walked towards me as though I were a worm which could easily be crushed with the foot. Not unnaturally, I too possess a measure of self-respect; wherefore, on _this_ occasion I took off my hat, and said politely (yes, I assure you it was said politely):" Madame, j ai	some of the passers-by also began to stare at us, and others of them halted outright. "Hein!" the Baron vociferated again, with a redoubled growl and a note of growing wrath in his voice. "Ja wohl!" I replied, still looking him in the eyes. "Sind Sie rasend?" he exclaimed, brandishing his stick, and, apparently, beginning to feel nervous. Perhaps it was my costume which intimidated him, for I was well and fashionably dressed, after the manner of a man who belongs to indisputably good society. "Ja wo-o-ohl!" cried I again with all my might with a longdrawn rolling of the "ohl" sound after the fashion of the Berliners (who constantly use the phrase "Ja wohl!" in conversation, and more or less prolong the syllable "ohl" according as they desire to express different shades of meaning or of mood). At this the Baron and the Baroness faced sharply about, and almost fled in their alarm. Some of the bystanders gave vent to excited exclamations, and others remained staring at me in astonishment. But I do not remember the details very well. Wheeling quietly about, I returned in the direction of Polina Alexandrovna. But, when I had got within a hundred paces of her seat, I saw her rise and set out with the children towards the hotel. At the portico I caught up to her. "I have perpetrated the the piece of idiocy," I said as I came level with her. "Have you? Then you can take the consequences," she replied without so much as looking at me. Then she moved towards the staircase. I spent the rest of the evening walking in the park. Thence I passed into the forest, and walked on until I found myself in a neighbouring principality. At a wayside restaurant I partook of an omelette and some wine, and was charged for the idyllic repast a thaler and a half. Not until eleven o clock did I return home to find a summons awaiting me from the General. Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; each of which contained two rooms. The first (the larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him and to the Baroness?" "No, I have not." "But I understand that you simply terrified them, my good sir?" shouted the General. "Not in the least," I replied. "You must know that when I was in Berlin I frequently used to hear the Berliners repeat, and repellently prolong, a certain phrase namely," Ja wohl! ; "and, happening to meet this couple in the carriage-drive, I found, for some reason or another, that this phrase suddenly recurred to my memory, and exercised a rousing effect upon my spirits. Moreover, on the three previous occasions that I have met the Baroness she has walked towards me as though I were a worm which could easily be crushed with the foot. Not unnaturally, I too possess a measure of self-respect; wherefore, on _this_ occasion I took off my hat, and said politely (yes, I assure you it was said politely):" Madame, j ai l honneur d tre votre esclave. "Then the Baron turned round, and said" Hein! ; "whereupon I felt moved to ejaculate in answer" Ja wohl! "Twice I shouted it at him the first time in an ordinary tone, and the second time with the greatest prolonging of the words of which I was capable. That is all." I must confess that this puerile explanation gave me great pleasure. I felt a strong desire to overlay the incident with an even added measure of grossness; so, the further I proceeded, the more did the gusto of my proceeding increase. "You are only making fun of me!" vociferated the General as, turning to the Frenchman, he declared that my bringing about of the incident had been gratuitous. De Griers smiled contemptuously, and shrugged his shoulders. "Do not think _that_," I put in. "It was not so at all. I grant you that my behaviour was bad I fully confess that it was so, and make no secret of the fact. I would even go so far as to grant you that my behaviour might well be called stupid and indecent tomfoolery; but, _more_ than that it was not. Also, let me tell	so peculiar had been her look as she stood confronting him. Ever since that evening I have loved her. But to my tale. I stepped from the path into the carriage-way, and took my stand in the middle of it. There I awaited the Baron and the Baroness. When they were but a few paces distant from me I took off my hat, and bowed. I remember that the Baroness was clad in a voluminous silk dress, pale grey in colour, and adorned with flounces and a crinoline and train. Also, she was short and inordinately stout, while her gross, flabby chin completely concealed her neck. Her face was purple, and the little eyes in it had an impudent, malicious expression. Yet she walked as though she were conferring a favour upon everybody by so doing. As for the Baron, he was tall, wizened, bony-faced after the German fashion, spectacled, and, apparently, about forty-five years of age. Also, he had legs which seemed to begin almost at his chest or, rather, at his chin! Yet, for all his air of peacock-like conceit, his clothes sagged a little, and his face wore a sheepish air which might have passed for profundity. These details I noted within a space of a few seconds. At first my bow and the fact that I had my hat in my hand barely caught their attention. The Baron only scowled a little, and the Baroness swept straight on. "Madame la Baronne," said I, loudly and distinctly embroidering each word, as it were "j ai l honneur d tre votre esclave." Then I bowed again, put on my hat, and walked past the Baron with a rude smile on my face. Polina had ordered me merely to take off my hat: the bow and the general effrontery were of my own invention. God knows what instigated me to perpetrate the outrage! In my frenzy I felt as though I were walking on air. "Hein!" ejaculated or, rather, growled the Baron as he turned towards me in angry surprise. I too turned round, and stood waiting in pseudo-courteous expectation. Yet still I wore on my face an impudent smile as I gazed at him. He seemed to hesitate, and his brows contracted to their utmost limits. Every moment his visage was growing darker. The Baroness also turned in my direction, and gazed at me in wrathful perplexity, while some of the passers-by also began to stare at us, and others of them halted outright. "Hein!" the Baron vociferated again, with a redoubled growl and a note of growing wrath in his voice. "Ja wohl!" I replied, still looking him in the eyes. "Sind Sie rasend?" he exclaimed, brandishing his stick, and, apparently, beginning to feel nervous. Perhaps it was my costume which intimidated him, for I was well and fashionably dressed, after the manner of a man who belongs to indisputably good society. "Ja wo-o-ohl!" cried I again with all my might with a longdrawn rolling of the "ohl" sound after the fashion of the Berliners (who constantly use the phrase "Ja wohl!" in conversation, and more or less prolong the syllable "ohl" according as they desire to express different shades of meaning or of mood). At this the Baron and the Baroness faced sharply about, and almost fled in their alarm. Some of the bystanders gave vent to excited exclamations, and others remained staring at me in astonishment. But I do not remember the details very well. Wheeling quietly about, I returned in the direction of Polina Alexandrovna. But, when I had got within a hundred paces of her seat, I saw her rise and set out with the children towards the hotel. At the portico I caught up to her. "I have perpetrated the the piece of idiocy," I said as I came level with her. "Have you? Then you can take the consequences," she replied without so much as looking at me. Then she moved towards the staircase. I spent the rest of the evening walking in the park. Thence I passed into the forest, and walked on until I found myself in a neighbouring principality. At a wayside restaurant I partook of an omelette and some wine, and was charged for the idyllic repast a thaler and a half. Not until eleven o clock did I return home to find a summons awaiting me from the General. Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; each of which contained two rooms. The first (the larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him and to the Baroness?" "No, I have not." "But I understand that you simply terrified them, my good sir?" shouted the General. "Not in the least," I replied. "You must know that when I was in Berlin I frequently used to hear the Berliners repeat, and repellently prolong, a certain phrase namely," Ja wohl! ; "and, happening to meet this couple in the carriage-drive, I found, for some reason or another, that this phrase suddenly recurred to my memory, and exercised a rousing effect upon my spirits. Moreover, on the three previous occasions that I have met the Baroness she has walked towards me as though I were a worm which could easily be crushed with the foot. Not unnaturally, I too possess a measure of self-respect; wherefore, on _this_ occasion I took off my hat, and said politely (yes, I assure you it was said politely):" Madame, j ai l honneur d tre votre esclave. "Then the Baron turned round, and said" Hein! ; "whereupon I felt moved to ejaculate in answer" Ja wohl! "Twice I shouted it at him the first time in an ordinary tone, and the second time with the greatest prolonging of the words of which I was capable. That is all." I must confess that this puerile explanation gave me great pleasure. I felt a strong desire to overlay the incident with an even added measure of grossness; so, the further I proceeded, the more did the gusto of my proceeding increase. "You are only making fun of me!" vociferated the General as, turning to the Frenchman, he declared that my bringing about of the incident had been gratuitous. De Griers smiled contemptuously, and shrugged his shoulders. "Do not think _that_," I put in. "It was not so at all. I grant you that my behaviour was bad I fully confess that it was so, and make no secret of the fact. I would even go so far as to grant you that my behaviour might well be called stupid and indecent tomfoolery; but, _more_ than that it was not. Also, let me tell you that I am very sorry for my conduct. Yet there is one circumstance which, in my eyes, almost absolves me from regret in the matter. Of late that is to say, for the last two or three weeks I have been feeling not at all well. That is to say, I have been in a sick, nervous, irritable, fanciful condition, so that I have periodically lost control over myself. For instance, on more than one occasion I have tried to pick a quarrel even with Monsieur le Marquise here; and, under the circumstances, he had no choice but to answer me. In short, I have recently been showing signs of ill-health. Whether the Baroness Burmergelm will take this circumstance into consideration when I come to beg her pardon (for I _do_ intend to make her amends) I do not know; but I doubt if she will, and the less so since, so far as I know, the circumstance is one which, of late, has begun to be abused in the legal world, in that advocates in criminal cases have taken to justifying their clients on the ground that, at the moment of the crime, they (the clients) were unconscious of what they were doing that, in short, they were out of health. My client committed the murder that is true; but he has no recollection of having committed it. And doctors actually support these advocates by affirming that there really is such a malady that there really _can_ arise temporary delusions which make a man remember nothing of a given deed, or only a half or a quarter of it! But the Baron and Baroness are members of an older generation, as well as Prussian Junkers and landowners. To them such a process in the medico-judicial world will be unknown, and therefore, they are the more unlikely to accept any such explanation. What is _your_ opinion about it, General?" "Enough, sir!" he thundered with barely restrained fury. "Enough, I say! Once and for all I must endeavour to rid myself of you and your impertinence. To justify yourself in the eyes of the Baron and Baroness will be impossible. Any intercourse with you, even though it be confined to a begging of their pardons, they would look upon as a degradation. I may tell you that, on learning that you formed part of my household, the Baron approached me	me in astonishment. But I do not remember the details very well. Wheeling quietly about, I returned in the direction of Polina Alexandrovna. But, when I had got within a hundred paces of her seat, I saw her rise and set out with the children towards the hotel. At the portico I caught up to her. "I have perpetrated the the piece of idiocy," I said as I came level with her. "Have you? Then you can take the consequences," she replied without so much as looking at me. Then she moved towards the staircase. I spent the rest of the evening walking in the park. Thence I passed into the forest, and walked on until I found myself in a neighbouring principality. At a wayside restaurant I partook of an omelette and some wine, and was charged for the idyllic repast a thaler and a half. Not until eleven o clock did I return home to find a summons awaiting me from the General. Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; each of which contained two rooms. The first (the larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him and to the Baroness?" "No, I have not." "But I understand that you simply terrified them, my good sir?" shouted the General. "Not in the least," I replied. "You must know that when I was in Berlin I frequently used to hear the Berliners repeat, and repellently prolong, a certain phrase namely," Ja wohl! ; "and, happening to meet this couple in the carriage-drive, I found, for some reason or another, that this phrase suddenly recurred to my memory, and exercised a rousing effect upon my spirits. Moreover, on the three previous occasions that I have met the Baroness she has walked towards me as though I were a worm which could easily be crushed with the foot. Not unnaturally, I too possess a measure of self-respect; wherefore, on _this_ occasion I took off my hat, and said politely (yes, I assure you it was said politely):" Madame, j ai l honneur d tre votre esclave. "Then the Baron turned round, and said" Hein! ; "whereupon I felt moved to ejaculate in answer" Ja wohl! "Twice I shouted it at him the first time in an ordinary tone, and the second time with the greatest prolonging of the words of which I was capable. That is all." I must confess that this puerile explanation gave me great pleasure. I felt a strong desire to overlay the incident with an even added measure of grossness; so, the further I proceeded, the more did the gusto of my proceeding increase. "You are only making fun of me!" vociferated the General as, turning to the Frenchman, he declared that my bringing about of the incident had been gratuitous. De Griers smiled contemptuously, and shrugged his shoulders. "Do not think _that_," I put in. "It was not so at all. I grant you that my behaviour was bad I fully confess that it was so, and make no secret of the fact. I would even go so	The Gambler
How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"	No speaker	a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into	we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but	of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like	welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect	rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.	all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something! They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner. "Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him." Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. "Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?" "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months." "Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate." "If your master would marry, you might see more of him." "Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him." Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is	speak openly to her aunt, than to run such a risk. But against this, there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if her private enquiries as to the absence of the family, were unfavourably answered. Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its proprietor, and with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer. A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her alarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go. END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. [Illustration: MATLOCK] PRIDE AND PREJUDICE: A Novel. In Three Volumes. By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility." VOL. III. London: Printed for T. Egerton, Military Library, Whitehall. 1813. [Illustration: DOVE-DALE] PRIDE & PREJUDICE. CHAPTER I. Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter. The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent. Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills;--and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something! They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner. "Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him." Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. "Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?" "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months." "Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate." "If your master would marry, you might see more of him." "Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him." Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so." "I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, "I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old." This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man, had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying, "There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master." "Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the world." Elizabeth almost stared at her.--" "Can this be Mr. Darcy!" thought she. "His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner. "Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just as affable to the poor." Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase. "He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw any thing of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men." "In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth. "This fine account of him,"	her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner. "Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him." Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. "Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?" "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months." "Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate." "If your master would marry, you might see more of him." "Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him." Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so." "I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, "I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old." This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man, had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying, "There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a	Pride And Prejudice
"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."	Mrs. Weston	can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond	one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is	one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant	days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at 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	one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at 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	misery. What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!" Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable. While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying, "And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better." "Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at 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	place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper." Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.-- Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: "for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?" "Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world." "My Emma!" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "what is the certainty of caprice?" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending before--" "You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in short, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him." "Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied Isabella: "and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!" Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable. While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying, "And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better." "Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at 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	every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at 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	Emma
I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:	No speaker	if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?"	expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of	Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that	Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently. "You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller. "When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know. "You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus----" I wink. "What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again." I consider that out of the question. "We might take a	and more accommodating: "How many of us were there in the class exactly?" We count up: out of twenty, seven are dead, four wounded, one in a mad-house. That makes twelve privates. "Three of them are lieutenants," says Müller. "Do you think they would still let Kantorek sit on them?" We guess not: we wouldn't let ourselves be sat on for that matter. "What do you mean by the three-fold theme in 'William Tell'?" says Kropp reminiscently, and roars with laughter. "What was the purpose of the Poetic League of Göttingen?" asks Müller suddenly and earnestly. "How many children had Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently. "You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller. "When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know. "You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus----" I wink. "What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again." I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam." "That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil." "It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you." Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?" "Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself. Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts	classical phrase. At the same time he ventilates his backside. "I'll have you court-martialled," storms Himmelstoss. We watch him disappear in the direction of the Orderly Room. Haie and Tjaden burst into a regular peat-digger's bellow. Haie laughs so much that he dislocates his jaw, and suddenly stands there helpless with his mouth wide open. Albert has to put it back again by giving it a blow with his fist. Kat is troubled: "If he reports you, it'll be pretty serious." "Do you think he will?" asks Tjaden. "Sure to," I say. "The least you'll get will be five days close arrest," says Kat. That doesn't worry Tjaden. "Five days clink are five days rest." "And if they send you to the Fortress?" urges the thoroughgoing Müller. "Well, for the time being the war will be over so far as I am concerned." Tjaden is a cheerful soul. There aren't any worries for him. He goes off with Haie and Leer so that they won't find him in the first flush of the excitement. * * Müller hasn't finished yet. He tackles Kropp again. "Albert, if you were really at home now, what would you do?" Kropp is contented now and more accommodating: "How many of us were there in the class exactly?" We count up: out of twenty, seven are dead, four wounded, one in a mad-house. That makes twelve privates. "Three of them are lieutenants," says Müller. "Do you think they would still let Kantorek sit on them?" We guess not: we wouldn't let ourselves be sat on for that matter. "What do you mean by the three-fold theme in 'William Tell'?" says Kropp reminiscently, and roars with laughter. "What was the purpose of the Poetic League of Göttingen?" asks Müller suddenly and earnestly. "How many children had Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently. "You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller. "When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know. "You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus----" I wink. "What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again." I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam." "That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil." "It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you." Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?" "Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself. Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts the knife away and continues: "That's just it. Kat and Detering and Haie will go back to their jobs because they had them already. Himmelstoss too. But we never had any. How will we ever get used to one after this, here?" --he makes a gesture toward the front. "We'll want a private income, and then we'll be able to live by ourselves in a wood," I say, but at once feel ashamed of this absurd idea. "But what will really happen when we go back?" wonders Müller, and even he is troubled. Kropp gives a shrug. "I don't know. Let's get back first, then we'll find out." We are all utterly at a loss. "What could we do?" I ask. "I don't want to do anything," replies Kropp wearily. "You'll be dead one day, so what does it matter? I don't think we'll ever go back." "When I think about it, Albert," I say after a while, rolling over on my back, "when I hear the word 'peace time,' it goes to my head; and if it really came, I think I would do some unimaginable thing--something, you know, that it's worth having lain here in the muck for.	his eyes in embarrassment. Himmelstoss is a little hesitant, his gait becomes slower. Then he marches up to us. No one makes any motion to stand up. Kropp looks up at him with interest. He continues to stand in front of us and wait. As no one says anything he launches a "Well?" A couple of seconds go by. Apparently Himmelstoss doesn't quite know what to do. He would like most to set us all on the run again. But he seems to have learned already that the front line isn't a parade ground. He tries it on though, and by addressing himself to one instead of to all of us hopes to get some response. Kropp is nearest, so he favours him. "Well, you here too?" But Albert's no friend of his. "A bit longer than you, I fancy," he retorts. The red moustache twitches: "You don't recognize me any more, what?" Tjaden now opens his eyes. "I do though." Himmelstoss turns to him: "Tjaden, isn't it?" Tjaden lifts his head. "And do you know what you are?" Himmelstoss is disconcerted. "Since when have we become so familiar? I don't remember that we ever slept in the gutter together?" He has no idea what to make of the situation. He didn't expect this open hostility. But he is on his guard: someone has already dinned some rot into him about getting a shot in the back. The question about the gutter makes Tjaden so mad that he becomes almost witty: "No, you slept there by yourself." Himmelstoss begins to boil. But Tjaden gets in ahead of him. He must bring off his insult: "Wouldn't you like to know what you are? A dirty hound, that's what you are. I've been wanting to tell you that for a long time." The satisfaction of months shines in his dull pig's eyes as he spits out: Dirty hound! Himmelstoss lets fly too, now. "What's that, you muck-rake, you dirty peat-stealer? Stand up there, bring your heels together when your superior officer speaks to you." Tjaden winks solemnly. "You take a run and jump at yourself, Himmelstoss." Himmelstoss is a raging book of army regulations. The Kaiser couldn't be more insulted. "Tjaden, I command you, as your superior officer: Stand up!" "Anything else you would like?" asks Tjaden. "Will you obey my order or not?" Tjaden replies, without knowing it, in the well-known classical phrase. At the same time he ventilates his backside. "I'll have you court-martialled," storms Himmelstoss. We watch him disappear in the direction of the Orderly Room. Haie and Tjaden burst into a regular peat-digger's bellow. Haie laughs so much that he dislocates his jaw, and suddenly stands there helpless with his mouth wide open. Albert has to put it back again by giving it a blow with his fist. Kat is troubled: "If he reports you, it'll be pretty serious." "Do you think he will?" asks Tjaden. "Sure to," I say. "The least you'll get will be five days close arrest," says Kat. That doesn't worry Tjaden. "Five days clink are five days rest." "And if they send you to the Fortress?" urges the thoroughgoing Müller. "Well, for the time being the war will be over so far as I am concerned." Tjaden is a cheerful soul. There aren't any worries for him. He goes off with Haie and Leer so that they won't find him in the first flush of the excitement. * * Müller hasn't finished yet. He tackles Kropp again. "Albert, if you were really at home now, what would you do?" Kropp is contented now and more accommodating: "How many of us were there in the class exactly?" We count up: out of twenty, seven are dead, four wounded, one in a mad-house. That makes twelve privates. "Three of them are lieutenants," says Müller. "Do you think they would still let Kantorek sit on them?" We guess not: we wouldn't let ourselves be sat on for that matter. "What do you mean by the three-fold theme in 'William Tell'?" says Kropp reminiscently, and roars with laughter. "What was the purpose of the Poetic League of Göttingen?" asks Müller suddenly and earnestly. "How many children had Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently. "You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller. "When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know. "You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus----" I wink. "What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again." I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam." "That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil." "It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you." Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?" "Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself. Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts the knife away and continues: "That's just it. Kat and Detering and Haie will go back to their jobs because they had them already. Himmelstoss too. But we never had any. How will we ever get used to one after this, here?" --he makes a gesture toward the front. "We'll want a private income, and then we'll be able to live by ourselves in a wood," I say, but at once feel ashamed of this absurd idea. "But what will really happen when we go back?" wonders Müller, and even he is troubled. Kropp gives a shrug. "I don't know. Let's get back first, then we'll find out." We are all utterly at a loss. "What could we do?" I ask. "I don't want to do anything," replies Kropp wearily. "You'll be dead one day, so what does it matter? I don't think we'll ever go back." "When I think about it, Albert," I say after a while, rolling over on my back, "when I hear the word 'peace time,' it goes to my head; and if it really came, I think I would do some unimaginable thing--something, you know, that it's worth having lain here in the muck for. But I can't even imagine anything. All I do know is that this business about professions and studies and salaries and so on--it makes me sick, it is and always was disgusting. I don't see anything--I don't see anything at all, Albert." All at once everything seems to me confused and hopeless. Kropp feels it too. "It will go pretty hard with us all. But nobody at home seems to worry much about it. Two years of shells and bombs--a man won't peel that off as easy as a sock." We agree that it's the same for everyone; not only for us here, but everywhere, for everyone who is of our age; to some more, and to others less. It is the common fate of our generation. Albert expresses it: "The war has ruined us for everything." He is right. We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing. We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces. The first bomb, the first explosion, burst in our hearts. We are cut off from activity, from striving, from progress. We believe in such things no longer, we believe in the war. * * The Orderly Room shows signs of life. Himmelstoss seems to have stirred them up. At the head of the column trots the fat sergeant-major. It is queer that almost all pay-sergeant-majors are fat. Himmelstoss follows him, thirsting for vengeance. His boots gleam in the sun. We get up. "Where's Tjaden?" the sergeant puffs. No one knows, of course. Himmelstoss glowers at us wrathfully. "You know very well. You won't say, that's the fact of the matter. Out with it!" Fatty looks round enquiringly; but Tjaden is not to be seen. He tries another way. "Tjaden will report at the Orderly Room in ten minutes." Then he steams off with Himmelstoss in his wake. "I have a feeling that next time we go up wiring I'll be letting a bundle of wire fall on Himmelstoss's leg," hints Kropp. "We'll have quite a lot of jokes with him," laughs Müller.-- That is our sole ambition: to knock the conceit out of a postman.-- I go into the hut and put Tjaden wise. He disappears. Then we change our possy and lie down again	Tjaden gets in ahead of him. He must bring off his insult: "Wouldn't you like to know what you are? A dirty hound, that's what you are. I've been wanting to tell you that for a long time." The satisfaction of months shines in his dull pig's eyes as he spits out: Dirty hound! Himmelstoss lets fly too, now. "What's that, you muck-rake, you dirty peat-stealer? Stand up there, bring your heels together when your superior officer speaks to you." Tjaden winks solemnly. "You take a run and jump at yourself, Himmelstoss." Himmelstoss is a raging book of army regulations. The Kaiser couldn't be more insulted. "Tjaden, I command you, as your superior officer: Stand up!" "Anything else you would like?" asks Tjaden. "Will you obey my order or not?" Tjaden replies, without knowing it, in the well-known classical phrase. At the same time he ventilates his backside. "I'll have you court-martialled," storms Himmelstoss. We watch him disappear in the direction of the Orderly Room. Haie and Tjaden burst into a regular peat-digger's bellow. Haie laughs so much that he dislocates his jaw, and suddenly stands there helpless with his mouth wide open. Albert has to put it back again by giving it a blow with his fist. Kat is troubled: "If he reports you, it'll be pretty serious." "Do you think he will?" asks Tjaden. "Sure to," I say. "The least you'll get will be five days close arrest," says Kat. That doesn't worry Tjaden. "Five days clink are five days rest." "And if they send you to the Fortress?" urges the thoroughgoing Müller. "Well, for the time being the war will be over so far as I am concerned." Tjaden is a cheerful soul. There aren't any worries for him. He goes off with Haie and Leer so that they won't find him in the first flush of the excitement. * * Müller hasn't finished yet. He tackles Kropp again. "Albert, if you were really at home now, what would you do?" Kropp is contented now and more accommodating: "How many of us were there in the class exactly?" We count up: out of twenty, seven are dead, four wounded, one in a mad-house. That makes twelve privates. "Three of them are lieutenants," says Müller. "Do you think they would still let Kantorek sit on them?" We guess not: we wouldn't let ourselves be sat on for that matter. "What do you mean by the three-fold theme in 'William Tell'?" says Kropp reminiscently, and roars with laughter. "What was the purpose of the Poetic League of Göttingen?" asks Müller suddenly and earnestly. "How many children had Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently. "You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller. "When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know. "You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus----" I wink. "What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again." I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam." "That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil." "It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you." Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?" "Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself. Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts the knife away and continues: "That's just it. Kat and Detering and Haie will go back to their jobs because they had them already. Himmelstoss too. But we never had any. How will we ever get used to one after this, here?" --he makes a gesture toward the front. "We'll want a private income, and then we'll be able to live by ourselves in a wood," I say, but at once feel ashamed of this absurd idea. "But what will really happen when we go back?" wonders Müller, and even he is troubled. Kropp gives a shrug. "I don't know. Let's get back first, then we'll find out." We are all utterly at a loss. "What could we do?" I ask. "I don't want to do anything," replies Kropp wearily. "You'll be dead one day, so what does it matter? I don't think we'll ever go back." "When I think about it, Albert," I say after a while, rolling over on my back, "when I hear the word 'peace time,' it goes to my head; and if it really came, I think I would do some unimaginable thing--something, you know, that it's worth having lain here in the muck for. But I can't even imagine anything. All I do know is that this business about professions and studies and salaries and so on--it makes me sick, it is and always was disgusting. I don't see anything--I don't see anything at all, Albert." All at once everything seems to me confused and hopeless. Kropp feels it too. "It will go pretty hard with us all. But nobody at home seems to worry much about it. Two years of shells and bombs--a man won't peel that off as easy as a sock." We agree that it's the same for everyone; not only for us here, but everywhere, for everyone who is of our age; to some more, and to others less. It is the common fate of our generation. Albert expresses it: "The war has ruined us for everything." He is right. We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing. We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to	All Quiet on the Western Front

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“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”	Mrs. Harling	like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always	Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under	gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted	The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in	feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but Mrs. Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively. “You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why she had n’t been a little more cordial to her. “I did n’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking	much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. “No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky. Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?” Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but Mrs. Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively. “You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why she had n’t been a little more cordial to her. “I did n’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking troubled. “She was kind of talked about, out there.” “Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it against her if she behaves well here. You need n’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim has heard all that gossip?” When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We were good friends, Frances and I. I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm. Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw Creek, and she used to herd her father’s cattle in the open country between his place and the Shimerdas’. Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among her cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered clothing, always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I thought of her as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, because I had never seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a ruddy thatch on her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in spite of constant exposure to the	plump, fair-skinned girl was standing in the doorway. She looked demure and pretty, and made a graceful picture in her blue cashmere dress and little blue hat, with a plaid shawl drawn neatly about her shoulders and a clumsy pocketbook in her hand. “Hello, Tony. Don’t you know me?” she asked in a smooth, low voice, looking in at us archly. Ántonia gasped and stepped back. “Why, it’s Lena! Of course I did n’t know you, so dressed up!” Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for a moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head—or with shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was, brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with perfect composure. “Hello, Jim,” she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and looked about her. “I’ve come to town to work, too, Tony.” “Have you, now? Well, ain’t that funny!” Ántonia stood ill at ease, and did n’t seem to know just what to do with her visitor. The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting and Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them. “You are Lena Lingard, are n’t you? I’ve been to see your mother, but you were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest girl.” Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven. “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena. “Where are you working?” “For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.” “Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How is your mother?” “Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. “No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky. Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?” Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but Mrs. Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively. “You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why she had n’t been a little more cordial to her. “I did n’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking troubled. “She was kind of talked about, out there.” “Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it against her if she behaves well here. You need n’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim has heard all that gossip?” When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We were good friends, Frances and I. I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm. Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw Creek, and she used to herd her father’s cattle in the open country between his place and the Shimerdas’. Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among her cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered clothing, always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I thought of her as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, because I had never seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a ruddy thatch on her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in spite of constant exposure to the sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which somehow made her seem more undressed than other girls who went scantily clad. The first time I stopped to talk to her, I was astonished at her soft voice and easy, gentle ways. The girls out there usually got rough and mannish after they went to herding. But Lena asked Jake and me to get off our horses and stay awhile, and behaved exactly as if she were in a house and were accustomed to having visitors. She was not embarrassed by her ragged clothes, and treated us as if we were old acquaintances. Even then I noticed the unusual color of her eyes—a shade of deep violet—and their soft, confiding expression. Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and he had a large family. Lena was always knitting stockings for little brothers and sisters, and even the Norwegian women, who disapproved of her, admitted that she was a good daughter to her mother. As Tony said, she had been talked about. She was accused of making Ole Benson lose the little sense he had—and that at an age when she should still have been in pinafores. [Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings] Ole lived in a leaky dugout somewhere at the edge of the settlement. He was fat and lazy and discouraged, and bad luck had become a habit with him. After he had had every other kind of misfortune, his wife, “Crazy Mary,” tried to set a neighbor’s barn on fire, and was sent to the asylum at Lincoln. She was kept there for a few months, then escaped and walked all the way home, nearly two hundred miles, traveling by night and hiding in barns and haystacks by day. When she got back to the Norwegian settlement, her poor feet were as hard as hoofs. She promised to be good, and was allowed to stay at home—though every one realized she was as crazy as ever, and she still ran about barefooted through the snow, telling her domestic troubles to her neighbors. Not long after Mary came back from the asylum, I heard a young Dane, who was helping us to thrash, tell Jake and Otto that Chris Lingard’s oldest girl had put Ole Benson out of his head, until he had no more sense than his crazy wife. When Ole was cultivating his corn that summer, he used to get	chair Frances pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven. “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena. “Where are you working?” “For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.” “Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How is your mother?” “Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. “No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky. Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?” Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling.<\|quote\|>“I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.”</\|quote\|>Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but Mrs. Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively. “You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why she had n’t been a little more cordial to her. “I did n’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking troubled. “She was kind of talked about, out there.” “Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it against her if she behaves well here. You need n’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim has heard all that gossip?” When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We were good friends, Frances and I. I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm. Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw Creek, and she used to herd her father’s cattle in the open country between his place and the Shimerdas’. Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among her cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered clothing, always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I thought of her as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, because I had never seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a ruddy thatch on her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in spite of constant exposure to the sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which somehow made her seem more undressed than other girls who went scantily clad. The first time I stopped to talk to her, I was astonished at her soft voice and easy, gentle ways. The girls out there usually got rough and mannish after they went to herding. But Lena asked Jake and me to get off our horses and stay awhile, and behaved exactly as if she were in a house and were accustomed to having visitors. She was not embarrassed by her ragged clothes, and treated us as if we were old acquaintances. Even then I noticed the unusual color of her eyes—a shade of deep violet—and their soft, confiding expression. Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and he had a	My Antonia
So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as	No speaker	we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father.	was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride	frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to	the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears	fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must use," said the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian	Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers," returned the girl. "And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon them, and have people walking over them with heavy boots?" "It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn't crush and wither, if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of what was very pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy" "Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn't fancy," cried the gentleman, quite elated by coming so happily to his point. "That's it! You are never to fancy." "You are not, Cecilia Jupe," Thomas Gradgrind solemnly repeated, "to do anything of that kind." "Fact, fact, fact!" said the gentleman. And "Fact, fact, fact!" repeated Thomas Gradgrind. "You are to be in all things regulated and governed," said the gentleman, "by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must use," said the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to "elucidate the diverting accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs." He was also to exhibit "his astounding feat of throwing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was to "enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in "the highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford." Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a	or not. Don't tell _us_ you wouldn't paper it. What do you mean, boy?" "I'll explain to you, then," said the gentleman, after another and a dismal pause, "why you wouldn't paper a room with representations of horses. Do you ever see horses walking up and down the sides of rooms in reality in fact? Do you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. "Why, then, you are not to see anywhere, what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, what you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers," returned the girl. "And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon them, and have people walking over them with heavy boots?" "It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn't crush and wither, if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of what was very pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy" "Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn't fancy," cried the gentleman, quite elated by coming so happily to his point. "That's it! You are never to fancy." "You are not, Cecilia Jupe," Thomas Gradgrind solemnly repeated, "to do anything of that kind." "Fact, fact, fact!" said the gentleman. And "Fact, fact, fact!" repeated Thomas Gradgrind. "You are to be in all things regulated and governed," said the gentleman, "by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must use," said the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to "elucidate the diverting accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs." He was also to exhibit "his astounding feat of throwing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was to "enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in "the highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford." Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the place. This brought him to a stop. "Now, to think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school." A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act! Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring child, and said: "Louisa!! Thomas!!" Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked at her father with more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine. "In the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!" said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away by a hand; "what do you do here?" "Wanted to see what it was like," returned Louisa, shortly. "What it was like?" "Yes, father." There was an air of jaded sullenness in them both, and particularly in the girl: yet, struggling through the dissatisfaction of her face, there was a light with nothing to rest upon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starved imagination keeping life in itself somehow, which brightened its expression. Not with the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but with uncertain, eager, doubtful flashes, which had something painful in them, analogous to the changes on a blind face groping its way. She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen; but at no distant day would seem to become a woman all at once. Her father thought so as he looked at her. She was pretty. Would have been self-willed (he thought in his eminently practical way) but for her bringing-up. "Thomas, though I have the fact before me, I find it difficult to believe that you, with your education and resources, should have brought your sister to a scene like this." "I brought _him_, father," said Louisa, quickly. "I asked him	have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another name for Fact." Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said the gentleman. "Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a representation of flowers upon it?" There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir!" was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes: among them Sissy Jupe. "Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. Sissy blushed, and stood up. "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband with representations of flowers, would you?" said the gentleman. "Why would you?" "If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers," returned the girl. "And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon them, and have people walking over them with heavy boots?" "It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn't crush and wither, if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of what was very pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy" "Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn't fancy," cried the gentleman, quite elated by coming so happily to his point. "That's it! You are never to fancy." "You are not, Cecilia Jupe," Thomas Gradgrind solemnly repeated, "to do anything of that kind." "Fact, fact, fact!" said the gentleman. And "Fact, fact, fact!" repeated Thomas Gradgrind. "You are to be in all things regulated and governed," said the gentleman, "by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must use," said the gentleman, "for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact prospect the world afforded. "Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild," said the gentleman, "will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure." Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. "Mr. M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you."<\|quote\|>So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much more! He went to work in this preparatory lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within or sometimes only maim him and distort him! CHAPTER III A LOOPHOLE MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they had an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles's Wain like a locomotive engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several stomachs. To his matter-of-fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. A very regular feature on the face of the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, as its master's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. Six windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; everything that heart could desire. Everything? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken from the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own names; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness' sake, that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it! Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner; but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as</\|quote\|>"an eminently practical" ' father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered to have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable. He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating from the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was "Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to "elucidate the diverting accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs." He was also to exhibit "his astounding feat of throwing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn." The same Signor Jupe was to "enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts." Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in "the highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor's Journey to Brentford." Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were congregated in a number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the place. This brought him to a stop. "Now, to think of these vagabonds," said he, "attracting the young rabble from a model school." A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look for any child he	Hard Times
Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.	No speaker	envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves	at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall	felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated.	do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, and she had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at the queer glow of exaltation in Cassandra s eyes, through which she was beholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she would go on talking about William	find herself already committed by William and Cassandra to marry the owner of the halting voice she had just heard on the telephone. The tendency of her spirit seemed to be in an altogether different direction; and of a different nature. She had only to look at Cassandra to see what the love that results in an engagement and marriage means. She considered for a moment, and then said: "If you don t want to tell people yourselves, I ll do it for you. I know William has feelings about these matters that make it very difficult for him to do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, and she had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at the queer glow of exaltation in Cassandra s eyes, through which she was beholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she would go on talking about William for ever. Cassandra was not unwilling to gratify her. She talked on. The morning slipped away. Katharine scarcely changed her position on the edge of her father s writing-table, and Cassandra never opened the "History of England." And yet it must be confessed that there were vast lapses in the attention which Katharine bestowed upon her cousin. The atmosphere was wonderfully congenial for thoughts of her own. She lost herself sometimes in such deep reverie that Cassandra, pausing, could look at her for moments unperceived. What could Katharine be thinking about, unless it were Ralph Denham? She was satisfied, by	wait as William says." "But, then, if I don t marry him for months or, perhaps, not at all?" Cassandra was silent. The prospect appalled her. Katharine had been telephoning to Ralph Denham; she looked queer, too; she must be, or about to become, engaged to him. But if Cassandra could have overheard the conversation upon the telephone, she would not have felt so certain that it tended in that direction. It was to this effect: "I m Ralph Denham speaking. I m in my right senses now." "How long did you wait outside the house?" "I went home and wrote you a letter. I tore it up." "I shall tear up everything too." "I shall come." "Yes. Come to-day." "I must explain to you" "Yes. We must explain" A long pause followed. Ralph began a sentence, which he canceled with the word, "Nothing." Suddenly, together, at the same moment, they said good-bye. And yet, if the telephone had been miraculously connected with some higher atmosphere pungent with the scent of thyme and the savor of salt, Katharine could hardly have breathed in a keener sense of exhilaration. She ran downstairs on the crest of it. She was amazed to find herself already committed by William and Cassandra to marry the owner of the halting voice she had just heard on the telephone. The tendency of her spirit seemed to be in an altogether different direction; and of a different nature. She had only to look at Cassandra to see what the love that results in an engagement and marriage means. She considered for a moment, and then said: "If you don t want to tell people yourselves, I ll do it for you. I know William has feelings about these matters that make it very difficult for him to do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, and she had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at the queer glow of exaltation in Cassandra s eyes, through which she was beholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she would go on talking about William for ever. Cassandra was not unwilling to gratify her. She talked on. The morning slipped away. Katharine scarcely changed her position on the edge of her father s writing-table, and Cassandra never opened the "History of England." And yet it must be confessed that there were vast lapses in the attention which Katharine bestowed upon her cousin. The atmosphere was wonderfully congenial for thoughts of her own. She lost herself sometimes in such deep reverie that Cassandra, pausing, could look at her for moments unperceived. What could Katharine be thinking about, unless it were Ralph Denham? She was satisfied, by certain random replies, that Katharine had wandered a little from the subject of William s perfections. But Katharine made no sign. She always ended these pauses by saying something so natural that Cassandra was deluded into giving fresh examples of her absorbing theme. Then they lunched, and the only sign that Katharine gave of abstraction was to forget to help the pudding. She looked so like her mother, as she sat there oblivious of the tapioca, that Cassandra was startled into exclaiming: "How like Aunt Maggie you look!" "Nonsense," said Katharine, with more irritation than the remark seemed to call for. In truth, now that her mother was away, Katharine did feel less sensible than usual, but as she argued it to herself, there was much less need for sense. Secretly, she was a little shaken by the evidence which the morning had supplied of her immense capacity for what could one call it? rambling over an infinite variety of thoughts that were too foolish to be named. She was, for example, walking down a road in Northumberland in the August sunset; at the inn she left her companion, who was Ralph Denham, and was transported, not so much by	unseeing, unscrupulous, but the only sign she gave outwardly was a curious one she reached out her hand and grasped the volume of history. At that moment the bell of the telephone rang and Katharine went to answer it. Cassandra, released from observation, dropped her book and clenched her hands. She suffered more fiery torture in those few minutes than she had suffered in the whole of her life; she learnt more of her capacities for feeling. But when Katharine reappeared she was calm, and had gained a look of dignity that was new to her. "Was that him?" she asked. "It was Ralph Denham," Katharine replied. "I meant Ralph Denham." "Why did you mean Ralph Denham? What has William told you about Ralph Denham?" The accusation that Katharine was calm, callous, and indifferent was not possible in face of her present air of animation. She gave Cassandra no time to frame an answer. "Now, when are you and William going to be married?" she asked. Cassandra made no reply for some moments. It was, indeed, a very difficult question to answer. In conversation the night before, William had indicated to Cassandra that, in his belief, Katharine was becoming engaged to Ralph Denham in the dining-room. Cassandra, in the rosy light of her own circumstances, had been disposed to think that the matter must be settled already. But a letter which she had received that morning from William, while ardent in its expression of affection, had conveyed to her obliquely that he would prefer the announcement of their engagement to coincide with that of Katharine s. This document Cassandra now produced, and read aloud, with considerable excisions and much hesitation. "... a thousand pities ahem I fear we shall cause a great deal of natural annoyance. If, on the other hand, what I have reason to think will happen, should happen within reasonable time, and the present position is not in any way offensive to you, delay would, in my opinion, serve all our interests better than a premature explanation, which is bound to cause more surprise than is desirable " "Very like William," Katharine exclaimed, having gathered the drift of these remarks with a speed that, by itself, disconcerted Cassandra. "I quite understand his feelings," Cassandra replied. "I quite agree with them. I think it would be much better, if you intend to marry Mr. Denham, that we should wait as William says." "But, then, if I don t marry him for months or, perhaps, not at all?" Cassandra was silent. The prospect appalled her. Katharine had been telephoning to Ralph Denham; she looked queer, too; she must be, or about to become, engaged to him. But if Cassandra could have overheard the conversation upon the telephone, she would not have felt so certain that it tended in that direction. It was to this effect: "I m Ralph Denham speaking. I m in my right senses now." "How long did you wait outside the house?" "I went home and wrote you a letter. I tore it up." "I shall tear up everything too." "I shall come." "Yes. Come to-day." "I must explain to you" "Yes. We must explain" A long pause followed. Ralph began a sentence, which he canceled with the word, "Nothing." Suddenly, together, at the same moment, they said good-bye. And yet, if the telephone had been miraculously connected with some higher atmosphere pungent with the scent of thyme and the savor of salt, Katharine could hardly have breathed in a keener sense of exhilaration. She ran downstairs on the crest of it. She was amazed to find herself already committed by William and Cassandra to marry the owner of the halting voice she had just heard on the telephone. The tendency of her spirit seemed to be in an altogether different direction; and of a different nature. She had only to look at Cassandra to see what the love that results in an engagement and marriage means. She considered for a moment, and then said: "If you don t want to tell people yourselves, I ll do it for you. I know William has feelings about these matters that make it very difficult for him to do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, and she had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at the queer glow of exaltation in Cassandra s eyes, through which she was beholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she would go on talking about William for ever. Cassandra was not unwilling to gratify her. She talked on. The morning slipped away. Katharine scarcely changed her position on the edge of her father s writing-table, and Cassandra never opened the "History of England." And yet it must be confessed that there were vast lapses in the attention which Katharine bestowed upon her cousin. The atmosphere was wonderfully congenial for thoughts of her own. She lost herself sometimes in such deep reverie that Cassandra, pausing, could look at her for moments unperceived. What could Katharine be thinking about, unless it were Ralph Denham? She was satisfied, by certain random replies, that Katharine had wandered a little from the subject of William s perfections. But Katharine made no sign. She always ended these pauses by saying something so natural that Cassandra was deluded into giving fresh examples of her absorbing theme. Then they lunched, and the only sign that Katharine gave of abstraction was to forget to help the pudding. She looked so like her mother, as she sat there oblivious of the tapioca, that Cassandra was startled into exclaiming: "How like Aunt Maggie you look!" "Nonsense," said Katharine, with more irritation than the remark seemed to call for. In truth, now that her mother was away, Katharine did feel less sensible than usual, but as she argued it to herself, there was much less need for sense. Secretly, she was a little shaken by the evidence which the morning had supplied of her immense capacity for what could one call it? rambling over an infinite variety of thoughts that were too foolish to be named. She was, for example, walking down a road in Northumberland in the August sunset; at the inn she left her companion, who was Ralph Denham, and was transported, not so much by her own feet as by some invisible means, to the top of a high hill. Here the scents, the sounds among the dry heather-roots, the grass-blades pressed upon the palm of her hand, were all so perceptible that she could experience each one separately. After this her mind made excursions into the dark of the air, or settled upon the surface of the sea, which could be discovered over there, or with equal unreason it returned to its couch of bracken beneath the stars of midnight, and visited the snow valleys of the moon. These fancies would have been in no way strange, since the walls of every mind are decorated with some such tracery, but she found herself suddenly pursuing such thoughts with an extreme ardor, which became a desire to change her actual condition for something matching the conditions of her dream. Then she started; then she awoke to the fact that Cassandra was looking at her in amazement. Cassandra would have liked to feel certain that, when Katharine made no reply at all or one wide of the mark, she was making up her mind to get married at once, but it was difficult, if this were so, to account for some remarks that Katharine let fall about the future. She recurred several times to the summer, as if she meant to spend that season in solitary wandering. She seemed to have a plan in her mind which required Bradshaws and the names of inns. Cassandra was driven finally, by her own unrest, to put on her clothes and wander out along the streets of Chelsea, on the pretence that she must buy something. But, in her ignorance of the way, she became panic-stricken at the thought of being late, and no sooner had she found the shop she wanted, than she fled back again in order to be at home when William came. He came, indeed, five minutes after she had sat down by the tea-table, and she had the happiness of receiving him alone. His greeting put her doubts of his affection at rest, but the first question he asked was: "Has Katharine spoken to you?" "Yes. But she says she s not engaged. She doesn t seem to think she s ever going to be engaged." William frowned, and looked annoyed. "They telephoned this morning, and she behaves very oddly. She forgets to help	it up." "I shall tear up everything too." "I shall come." "Yes. Come to-day." "I must explain to you" "Yes. We must explain" A long pause followed. Ralph began a sentence, which he canceled with the word, "Nothing." Suddenly, together, at the same moment, they said good-bye. And yet, if the telephone had been miraculously connected with some higher atmosphere pungent with the scent of thyme and the savor of salt, Katharine could hardly have breathed in a keener sense of exhilaration. She ran downstairs on the crest of it. She was amazed to find herself already committed by William and Cassandra to marry the owner of the halting voice she had just heard on the telephone. The tendency of her spirit seemed to be in an altogether different direction; and of a different nature. She had only to look at Cassandra to see what the love that results in an engagement and marriage means. She considered for a moment, and then said: "If you don t want to tell people yourselves, I ll do it for you. I know William has feelings about these matters that make it very difficult for him to do anything." "Because he s fearfully sensitive about other people s feelings," said Cassandra. "The idea that he could upset Aunt Maggie or Uncle Trevor would make him ill for weeks." This interpretation of what she was used to call William s conventionality was new to Katharine. And yet she felt it now to be the true one. "Yes, you re right," she said. "And then he worships beauty. He wants life to be beautiful in every part of it. Have you ever noticed how exquisitely he finishes everything? Look at the address on that envelope. Every letter is perfect."<\|quote\|>Whether this applied also to the sentiments expressed in the letter, Katharine was not so sure; but when William s solicitude was spent upon Cassandra it not only failed to irritate her, as it had done when she was the object of it, but appeared, as Cassandra said, the fruit of his love of beauty.</\|quote\|>"Yes," she said, "he loves beauty." "I hope we shall have a great many children," said Cassandra. "He loves children." This remark made Katharine realize the depths of their intimacy better than any other words could have done; she was jealous for one moment; but the next she was humiliated. She had known William for years, and she had never once guessed that he loved children. She looked at the queer glow of exaltation in Cassandra s eyes, through which she was beholding the true spirit of a human being, and wished that she would go on talking about William for ever. Cassandra was not unwilling to gratify her. She talked on. The morning slipped away. Katharine scarcely changed her position on the edge of her father s writing-table, and Cassandra never opened the "History of England." And yet it must be confessed that there were vast lapses in the attention which Katharine bestowed upon her cousin. The atmosphere was wonderfully congenial for thoughts of her own. She lost herself sometimes in such deep reverie that Cassandra, pausing, could look at her for moments unperceived. What could Katharine be thinking about, unless it were Ralph Denham? She was satisfied, by certain random replies, that Katharine had wandered a little from the subject of William s perfections. But Katharine made no sign. She always ended these pauses by saying something so natural that Cassandra was	Night And Day
"not to have a single acquaintance here!"	Catherine Morland	uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs.	room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it	her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I	a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had _any;_ it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go	Catherine began to feel something of disappointment she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had _any;_ it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see." "No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid." "No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you _must_ know somebody." "I don t, upon my word I wish I did. I wish I had a	they moved on something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear I wish you could get a partner." For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had _any;_ it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see." "No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid." "No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you _must_ know somebody." "I don t, upon my word I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back." After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over. "Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have had an agreeable ball." "Very agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn. "I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife; "I wish we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!" "We shall do better	of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine s entree into life could not take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it. Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine, however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within her friend s to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they moved on something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear I wish you could get a partner." For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had _any;_ it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see." "No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid." "No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you _must_ know somebody." "I don t, upon my word I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back." After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over. "Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have had an agreeable ball." "Very agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn. "I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife; "I wish we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!" "We shall do better another evening I hope," was Mr. Allen s consolation. The company began to disperse when the dancing was over enough to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the company only seen her three years before, they would _now_ have thought her exceedingly handsome. She _was_ looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it before her humble vanity was contented she felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention. CHAPTER 3 Every morning now brought its regular duties shops were to be visited; some new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at all. They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to her a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for	on, whereas she had imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they moved on something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear I wish you could get a partner." For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine,<\|quote\|>"not to have a single acquaintance here!"</\|quote\|>"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had _any;_ it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see." "No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid." "No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you _must_ know somebody." "I don t, upon my word I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back." After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over. "Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have had an agreeable ball." "Very agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn. "I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife; "I wish we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!" "We shall do better another evening I hope," was Mr. Allen s consolation. The company began to disperse when the dancing was over enough to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a heroine, who had	Northanger Abbey
"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."	Mrs. Norris	their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really	anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you	put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_	nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that	son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her. As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!" "Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers." "Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference	cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris's voice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was good-natured enough" ." Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her. As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!" "Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers." "Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn." "Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing." "To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are; on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference." Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful	write your letter whenever you choose. Would it make you happy to write to William?" "Yes, very." "Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we shall find everything there, and be sure of having the room to ourselves." "But, cousin, will it go to the post?" "Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and, as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing." "My uncle!" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look. "Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to frank." Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother could himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He continued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother which delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand his love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal. Fanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and a strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great timidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that she required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured, in the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and Julia, and being as merry as possible. From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris's voice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was good-natured enough" ." Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her. As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!" "Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers." "Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn." "Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing." "To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are; on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference." Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising talents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him. To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with proper masters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at learning, "she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people _were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what else was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very handy and quick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted." Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her cousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too lowly of her own claims to feel injured by it. From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in consequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring, and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort might arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss Bertrams continued to exercise their	age and strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was good-natured enough" ." Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her. As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or, she never heard of Asia Minor or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?" "My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,<\|quote\|>"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."</\|quote\|>"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant! Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!" "Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers." "Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn." "Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing." "To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are; on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference." Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising talents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before	Mansfield Park
said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.	No speaker	presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come	your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s	hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his	her to place her rose the wrong way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur, whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance. "What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life, perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She	spare rooms, even when the boys are here. Besides, he wouldn t get a room in the village. And he oughtn t to work if he s overworked." "But perhaps he doesn t want to see so much of us," Mary thought to herself, although outwardly she assented, and felt grateful to Elizabeth for supporting her in what was, of course, her desire. They were cutting roses at the time, and laying them, head by head, in a shallow basket. "If Ralph were here, he d find this very dull," Mary thought, with a little shiver of irritation, which led her to place her rose the wrong way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur, whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance. "What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life, perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She knew very well that he wished to be left alone, but she stuck to his side much as she might have stuck to some sleep-walker, whom she thought it right gradually to awaken. She could think of nothing to rouse him with except: "The garden s looking very nice, father." "Yes, yes, yes," said Mr. Datchet, running his words together in the same abstracted manner, and sinking his head yet lower upon his breast. And suddenly, as they turned their steps to retrace their way, he jerked out: "The traffic s very much increased, you know. More rolling-stock needed already.	it was to have an idle minute. An extreme rectitude of mind, rather than any gift, gave her weight in the family. When Mary wrote to say that she had asked Ralph Denham to stay with them, she added, out of deference to Elizabeth s character, that he was very nice, though rather queer, and had been overworking himself in London. No doubt Elizabeth would conclude that Ralph was in love with her, but there could be no doubt either that not a word of this would be spoken by either of them, unless, indeed, some catastrophe made mention of it unavoidable. Mary went down to Disham without knowing whether Ralph intended to come; but two or three days before Christmas she received a telegram from Ralph, asking her to take a room for him in the village. This was followed by a letter explaining that he hoped he might have his meals with them; but quiet, essential for his work, made it necessary to sleep out. Mary was walking in the garden with Elizabeth, and inspecting the roses, when the letter arrived. "But that s absurd," said Elizabeth decidedly, when the plan was explained to her. "There are five spare rooms, even when the boys are here. Besides, he wouldn t get a room in the village. And he oughtn t to work if he s overworked." "But perhaps he doesn t want to see so much of us," Mary thought to herself, although outwardly she assented, and felt grateful to Elizabeth for supporting her in what was, of course, her desire. They were cutting roses at the time, and laying them, head by head, in a shallow basket. "If Ralph were here, he d find this very dull," Mary thought, with a little shiver of irritation, which led her to place her rose the wrong way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur, whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance. "What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life, perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She knew very well that he wished to be left alone, but she stuck to his side much as she might have stuck to some sleep-walker, whom she thought it right gradually to awaken. She could think of nothing to rouse him with except: "The garden s looking very nice, father." "Yes, yes, yes," said Mr. Datchet, running his words together in the same abstracted manner, and sinking his head yet lower upon his breast. And suddenly, as they turned their steps to retrace their way, he jerked out: "The traffic s very much increased, you know. More rolling-stock needed already. Forty trucks went down yesterday by the 12.15 counted them myself. They ve taken off the 9.3, and given us an 8.30 instead suits the business men, you know. You came by the old 3.10 yesterday, I suppose?" She said "Yes," as he seemed to wish for a reply, and then he looked at his watch, and made off down the path towards the house, holding the rose at the same angle in front of him. Elizabeth had gone round to the side of the house, where the chickens lived, so that Mary found herself alone, holding Ralph s letter in her hand. She was uneasy. She had put off the season for thinking things out very successfully, and now that Ralph was actually coming, the next day, she could only wonder how her family would impress him. She thought it likely that her father would discuss the train service with him; Elizabeth would be bright and sensible, and always leaving the room to give messages to the servants. Her brothers had already said that they would give him a day s shooting. She was content to leave the problem of Ralph s relations to the young men obscure, trusting	the habit of connecting this particular walk with certain odes which he repeated duly, at the same time noting the condition of his flowers, and stooping now and again to pick any that were withered or overblown. On wet days, such was the power of habit over him, he rose from his chair at the same hour, and paced his study for the same length of time, pausing now and then to straighten some book in the bookcase, or alter the position of the two brass crucifixes standing upon cairns of serpentine stone upon the mantelpiece. His children had a great respect for him, credited him with far more learning than he actually possessed, and saw that his habits were not interfered with, if possible. Like most people who do things methodically, the Rector himself had more strength of purpose and power of self-sacrifice than of intellect or of originality. On cold and windy nights he rode off to visit sick people, who might need him, without a murmur; and by virtue of doing dull duties punctually, he was much employed upon committees and local Boards and Councils; and at this period of his life (he was sixty-eight) he was beginning to be commiserated by tender old ladies for the extreme leanness of his person, which, they said, was worn out upon the roads when it should have been resting before a comfortable fire. His elder daughter, Elizabeth, lived with him and managed the house, and already much resembled him in dry sincerity and methodical habit of mind; of the two sons one, Richard, was an estate agent, the other, Christopher, was reading for the Bar. At Christmas, naturally, they met together; and for a month past the arrangement of the Christmas week had been much in the mind of mistress and maid, who prided themselves every year more confidently upon the excellence of their equipment. The late Mrs. Datchet had left an excellent cupboard of linen, to which Elizabeth had succeeded at the age of nineteen, when her mother died, and the charge of the family rested upon the shoulders of the eldest daughter. She kept a fine flock of yellow chickens, sketched a little, certain rose-trees in the garden were committed specially to her care; and what with the care of the house, the care of the chickens, and the care of the poor, she scarcely knew what it was to have an idle minute. An extreme rectitude of mind, rather than any gift, gave her weight in the family. When Mary wrote to say that she had asked Ralph Denham to stay with them, she added, out of deference to Elizabeth s character, that he was very nice, though rather queer, and had been overworking himself in London. No doubt Elizabeth would conclude that Ralph was in love with her, but there could be no doubt either that not a word of this would be spoken by either of them, unless, indeed, some catastrophe made mention of it unavoidable. Mary went down to Disham without knowing whether Ralph intended to come; but two or three days before Christmas she received a telegram from Ralph, asking her to take a room for him in the village. This was followed by a letter explaining that he hoped he might have his meals with them; but quiet, essential for his work, made it necessary to sleep out. Mary was walking in the garden with Elizabeth, and inspecting the roses, when the letter arrived. "But that s absurd," said Elizabeth decidedly, when the plan was explained to her. "There are five spare rooms, even when the boys are here. Besides, he wouldn t get a room in the village. And he oughtn t to work if he s overworked." "But perhaps he doesn t want to see so much of us," Mary thought to herself, although outwardly she assented, and felt grateful to Elizabeth for supporting her in what was, of course, her desire. They were cutting roses at the time, and laying them, head by head, in a shallow basket. "If Ralph were here, he d find this very dull," Mary thought, with a little shiver of irritation, which led her to place her rose the wrong way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur, whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance. "What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life, perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She knew very well that he wished to be left alone, but she stuck to his side much as she might have stuck to some sleep-walker, whom she thought it right gradually to awaken. She could think of nothing to rouse him with except: "The garden s looking very nice, father." "Yes, yes, yes," said Mr. Datchet, running his words together in the same abstracted manner, and sinking his head yet lower upon his breast. And suddenly, as they turned their steps to retrace their way, he jerked out: "The traffic s very much increased, you know. More rolling-stock needed already. Forty trucks went down yesterday by the 12.15 counted them myself. They ve taken off the 9.3, and given us an 8.30 instead suits the business men, you know. You came by the old 3.10 yesterday, I suppose?" She said "Yes," as he seemed to wish for a reply, and then he looked at his watch, and made off down the path towards the house, holding the rose at the same angle in front of him. Elizabeth had gone round to the side of the house, where the chickens lived, so that Mary found herself alone, holding Ralph s letter in her hand. She was uneasy. She had put off the season for thinking things out very successfully, and now that Ralph was actually coming, the next day, she could only wonder how her family would impress him. She thought it likely that her father would discuss the train service with him; Elizabeth would be bright and sensible, and always leaving the room to give messages to the servants. Her brothers had already said that they would give him a day s shooting. She was content to leave the problem of Ralph s relations to the young men obscure, trusting that they would find some common ground of masculine agreement. But what would he think of _her?_ Would he see that she was different from the rest of the family? She devised a plan for taking him to her sitting-room, and artfully leading the talk towards the English poets, who now occupied prominent places in her little bookcase. Moreover, she might give him to understand, privately, that she, too, thought her family a queer one queer, yes, but not dull. That was the rock past which she was bent on steering him. And she thought how she would draw his attention to Edward s passion for Jorrocks, and the enthusiasm which led Christopher to collect moths and butterflies though he was now twenty-two. Perhaps Elizabeth s sketching, if the fruits were invisible, might lend color to the general effect which she wished to produce of a family, eccentric and limited, perhaps, but not dull. Edward, she perceived, was rolling the lawn, for the sake of exercise; and the sight of him, with pink cheeks, bright little brown eyes, and a general resemblance to a clumsy young cart-horse in its winter coat of dusty brown hair, made Mary violently ashamed of her ambitious scheming. She loved him precisely as he was; she loved them all; and as she walked by his side, up and down, and down and up, her strong moral sense administered a sound drubbing to the vain and romantic element aroused in her by the mere thought of Ralph. She felt quite certain that, for good or for bad, she was very like the rest of her family. Sitting in the corner of a third-class railway carriage, on the afternoon of the following day, Ralph made several inquiries of a commercial traveler in the opposite corner. They centered round a village called Lampsher, not three miles, he understood, from Lincoln; was there a big house in Lampsher, he asked, inhabited by a gentleman of the name of Otway? The traveler knew nothing, but rolled the name of Otway on his tongue, reflectively, and the sound of it gratified Ralph amazingly. It gave him an excuse to take a letter from his pocket in order to verify the address. "Stogdon House, Lampsher, Lincoln," he read out. "You ll find somebody to direct you at Lincoln," said the man; and Ralph had to confess that he was not bound there	roads when it should have been resting before a comfortable fire. His elder daughter, Elizabeth, lived with him and managed the house, and already much resembled him in dry sincerity and methodical habit of mind; of the two sons one, Richard, was an estate agent, the other, Christopher, was reading for the Bar. At Christmas, naturally, they met together; and for a month past the arrangement of the Christmas week had been much in the mind of mistress and maid, who prided themselves every year more confidently upon the excellence of their equipment. The late Mrs. Datchet had left an excellent cupboard of linen, to which Elizabeth had succeeded at the age of nineteen, when her mother died, and the charge of the family rested upon the shoulders of the eldest daughter. She kept a fine flock of yellow chickens, sketched a little, certain rose-trees in the garden were committed specially to her care; and what with the care of the house, the care of the chickens, and the care of the poor, she scarcely knew what it was to have an idle minute. An extreme rectitude of mind, rather than any gift, gave her weight in the family. When Mary wrote to say that she had asked Ralph Denham to stay with them, she added, out of deference to Elizabeth s character, that he was very nice, though rather queer, and had been overworking himself in London. No doubt Elizabeth would conclude that Ralph was in love with her, but there could be no doubt either that not a word of this would be spoken by either of them, unless, indeed, some catastrophe made mention of it unavoidable. Mary went down to Disham without knowing whether Ralph intended to come; but two or three days before Christmas she received a telegram from Ralph, asking her to take a room for him in the village. This was followed by a letter explaining that he hoped he might have his meals with them; but quiet, essential for his work, made it necessary to sleep out. Mary was walking in the garden with Elizabeth, and inspecting the roses, when the letter arrived. "But that s absurd," said Elizabeth decidedly, when the plan was explained to her. "There are five spare rooms, even when the boys are here. Besides, he wouldn t get a room in the village. And he oughtn t to work if he s overworked." "But perhaps he doesn t want to see so much of us," Mary thought to herself, although outwardly she assented, and felt grateful to Elizabeth for supporting her in what was, of course, her desire. They were cutting roses at the time, and laying them, head by head, in a shallow basket. "If Ralph were here, he d find this very dull," Mary thought, with a little shiver of irritation, which led her to place her rose the wrong way in the basket. Meanwhile, they had come to the end of the path, and while Elizabeth straightened some flowers, and made them stand upright within their fence of string, Mary looked at her father, who was pacing up and down, with his hand behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. Obeying an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt this methodical marching, Mary stepped on to the grass walk and put her hand on his arm. "A flower for your buttonhole, father," she said, presenting a rose. "Eh, dear?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Datchet, taking the flower, and holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight, without pausing in his walk.</\|quote\|>"Where does this fellow come from? One of Elizabeth s roses I hope you asked her leave. Elizabeth doesn t like having her roses picked without her leave, and quite right, too." He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur, whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance. "What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life, perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She knew very well that he wished to be left alone, but she stuck to his side much as she might have stuck to some sleep-walker, whom she thought it right gradually to awaken. She could think of nothing to rouse him with except: "The garden s looking very nice, father." "Yes, yes, yes," said Mr. Datchet, running his words together in the same abstracted manner, and sinking his head yet lower upon his breast. And suddenly, as they turned their steps to retrace their way, he jerked out: "The traffic s very much increased, you know. More rolling-stock needed already. Forty trucks went down yesterday by the 12.15 counted them myself. They ve taken off the 9.3, and given us an 8.30 instead suits the business men, you know. You came by the old 3.10 yesterday, I suppose?" She said "Yes," as he seemed to wish for a reply, and then he looked at his watch, and made off down the path towards the house, holding the rose at the same angle in front of him. Elizabeth had gone round to the side of the house, where the chickens lived, so that Mary found herself alone, holding Ralph s letter in her hand. She was uneasy. She had put off the season for thinking things out very successfully, and now that Ralph was actually coming, the next day, she could only wonder how her family would impress him. She thought it likely that her father would discuss the train service with him; Elizabeth would be bright and sensible, and always leaving the room to give messages to the servants. Her brothers had already said that they would give him a day s shooting. She was content to leave the problem of Ralph s relations to the young men obscure, trusting that they would find some common ground of masculine agreement. But what would he think of _her?_ Would he see that she was different from the rest of the family? She devised a plan for taking him to her sitting-room, and artfully leading the talk towards the English poets, who now occupied prominent places in her little bookcase. Moreover, she might give him to understand, privately, that she, too, thought her family a queer one queer, yes, but not dull. That was the rock past which she was bent on	Night And Day
It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.	No speaker	pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take	their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some	would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be	golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me	Don, I can only think of one thing." "What's that, Jem?" "How to get a bit of sleep, for the sun has made me as drowsy as a beedle." "Well, then, sit down and sleep." Jem wanted no persuasion, and in five minutes he was breathing very heavily, while Don sat watching the beauties of nature, the clouds of steam floating above the volcanic island, the wondrous sheen of the sea in the sun, the great lace-like tree-ferns which drooped over the mossy growth at the forest edge, and the beautiful butterflies which floated about like gaily-painted flowers in the golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me run away. I'll stop and bear it like a man." Somehow Don felt lighter in heart after coming to this determination; and after looking round and wondering how long the explorers would be before they returned, and also wishing he could have been of the party, he leaned his elbows on the side of the boat and gazed down into the clear water, and through it at the beautiful lace-like pattern made by the sun, casting the netted shadow of the ripples on the soft pebbly sand. Now and then a shoal of fish glided in and dashed away. Then	and it won't be very long before you'll grow into chiefs." He nodded, and then said a few words to his companion, who smiled at the two strangers in turn, after which they went off together into the forest, and were gone. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem. "Don't know whether it arn't safer aboard ship after all." "Why do you say that?" cried Don. "Because whenever that black chap looks at me, he gives me the shivers." "Why?" "Seems to me that he's too fond of you, Mas' Don, and as if he was thinking how good you'd be." "Nonsense!" cried Don, who was enjoying the fruit. "Have some more of these. I wonder whether there are any more good kinds of fruit grow ashore." "Sure to be." "Do you think if we left the ship, Jem, and found our way right along the coast to some place where we could live till the ship had gone, and then wait till another ship came, we could get enough to eat?" "Dessay we could." "Because if we did, we should be quite independent, and could do as we liked." "To be sure, that's the way it seems to me; but just now, Mas' Don, I can only think of one thing." "What's that, Jem?" "How to get a bit of sleep, for the sun has made me as drowsy as a beedle." "Well, then, sit down and sleep." Jem wanted no persuasion, and in five minutes he was breathing very heavily, while Don sat watching the beauties of nature, the clouds of steam floating above the volcanic island, the wondrous sheen of the sea in the sun, the great lace-like tree-ferns which drooped over the mossy growth at the forest edge, and the beautiful butterflies which floated about like gaily-painted flowers in the golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me run away. I'll stop and bear it like a man." Somehow Don felt lighter in heart after coming to this determination; and after looking round and wondering how long the explorers would be before they returned, and also wishing he could have been of the party, he leaned his elbows on the side of the boat and gazed down into the clear water, and through it at the beautiful lace-like pattern made by the sun, casting the netted shadow of the ripples on the soft pebbly sand. Now and then a shoal of fish glided in and dashed away. Then one brilliantly decked in gold and silver and blue came floating by, and Don watched it eagerly, wishing the while that he had a line. He was leaning over the side in this way, gazing down at the water, now about four feet deep where the boat had swung, when he became aware of something pale and shadowy some little distance off. Looking at it in a sloping direction made the ocean water seem so dense that he could not make out what it was for some little time. At first it seemed to be a dimly-seen patch of seaweed; then it appeared to be too regular and rounded, and it struck him that it must be a large transparent jelly-fish floating in with the tide, till he made out that it was continued backward from him, and that it was larger than he had imagined; and as he looked the object gradually grew plainer and more distinct. It was still shadowy and grey, and had a peculiar, strange attraction, which made him lean more over the side till a curious nightmare-like sensation came over him, and as he realised that the object was alive, and that he was looking	and swear as there shall be no tattooing and meat-pie nonsense, and I'd go ashore with them now." "No, Jem, that would not do till we know a little more of them, and I can't help hesitating now it comes to the point." "That's just what I felt, Mas' Don," said Jem, with a perplexed look on his face. "Come, Jem, who's stealing some one else's ideas now?" "Like fruit?" said the tattooed Englishman, coming down to the water's edge. "That depends," said Jem, dubiously. "What is it?" "Karaka," said their new friend, offering a basket of an olive-like fruit. "Good to eat?" "Yes; try it." "S'pose you eat some first," said Jem suspiciously. The Englishman laughed, and took some of the fruit, and began to chew it. "Afraid these would drug you so that I could steal the boat?" "I didn't know. Wouldn't be the first who has stolen a boat, I suppose" said Jem sulkily. "Wouldn't be the first who has stolen a boat, I suppose." Don took some of the berries, and began to eat, and this emboldened Jem, who tasted one in a very suspicious and doubting way. "Hullo!" he said, with his countenance brightening; "know what these here taste like, Mas' Don?" "Very mellow apple?" "No; like the medlars that grew in my grandmother's garden." "That's right!" said the Englishman; and his New Zealand companion began to select the best and ripest of the fruit from the basket and handed them to Don, watching him eat with what was meant for a pleasant smile; but as his face resembled one that had been carved in a piece of mahogany, and afterwards ornamented with streaks and scrolls, the effect was more repellent than attractive. "My pakeha," said the great fellow with a childlike show of satisfaction; and he looked from one to the other and laughed. "Here, he's took to you regular, youngster; only look out, for he'll want _utu_ for it some time. Eh, Ngati? Utu?" "_Utu_, _utu_" said the chief, smiling. "What's utu?" said Jem, in a surly tone. "Payment." "Oh, then we'll give him a bit of 'bacco." He offered the New Zealander his tobacco-bag, which was quietly annexed with a smile. "There, we'll leave you the fruit. They're good eating, my lads, and if at any time before you go, you feel disposed to settle down with us, there's plenty of room, and it won't be very long before you'll grow into chiefs." He nodded, and then said a few words to his companion, who smiled at the two strangers in turn, after which they went off together into the forest, and were gone. "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem. "Don't know whether it arn't safer aboard ship after all." "Why do you say that?" cried Don. "Because whenever that black chap looks at me, he gives me the shivers." "Why?" "Seems to me that he's too fond of you, Mas' Don, and as if he was thinking how good you'd be." "Nonsense!" cried Don, who was enjoying the fruit. "Have some more of these. I wonder whether there are any more good kinds of fruit grow ashore." "Sure to be." "Do you think if we left the ship, Jem, and found our way right along the coast to some place where we could live till the ship had gone, and then wait till another ship came, we could get enough to eat?" "Dessay we could." "Because if we did, we should be quite independent, and could do as we liked." "To be sure, that's the way it seems to me; but just now, Mas' Don, I can only think of one thing." "What's that, Jem?" "How to get a bit of sleep, for the sun has made me as drowsy as a beedle." "Well, then, sit down and sleep." Jem wanted no persuasion, and in five minutes he was breathing very heavily, while Don sat watching the beauties of nature, the clouds of steam floating above the volcanic island, the wondrous sheen of the sea in the sun, the great lace-like tree-ferns which drooped over the mossy growth at the forest edge, and the beautiful butterflies which floated about like gaily-painted flowers in the golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me run away. I'll stop and bear it like a man." Somehow Don felt lighter in heart after coming to this determination; and after looking round and wondering how long the explorers would be before they returned, and also wishing he could have been of the party, he leaned his elbows on the side of the boat and gazed down into the clear water, and through it at the beautiful lace-like pattern made by the sun, casting the netted shadow of the ripples on the soft pebbly sand. Now and then a shoal of fish glided in and dashed away. Then one brilliantly decked in gold and silver and blue came floating by, and Don watched it eagerly, wishing the while that he had a line. He was leaning over the side in this way, gazing down at the water, now about four feet deep where the boat had swung, when he became aware of something pale and shadowy some little distance off. Looking at it in a sloping direction made the ocean water seem so dense that he could not make out what it was for some little time. At first it seemed to be a dimly-seen patch of seaweed; then it appeared to be too regular and rounded, and it struck him that it must be a large transparent jelly-fish floating in with the tide, till he made out that it was continued backward from him, and that it was larger than he had imagined; and as he looked the object gradually grew plainer and more distinct. It was still shadowy and grey, and had a peculiar, strange attraction, which made him lean more over the side till a curious nightmare-like sensation came over him, and as he realised that the object was alive, and that he was looking down at two strange dull eyes, he felt that he could not shrink back, although the creeping chilly feeling which came over him seemed like a warning of danger. Then it all appeared more like a dream, in which he was striving hard to get away, and all the time obliged to crouch there gazing at that creature whose eyes were fixed upon him, and which imperceptibly grew plainer to his sight. The intensity of the position grew more and more painful during what appeared to be a long time. He tried to call to Jem, who was asleep not six feet away, but his mouth felt dry. He endeavoured to reach out and kick him, but he could not stir, and still the creature advanced till, all at once, there was a tremendous disturbance in the water; something seemed to rise and strike him a violent blow in the chest, and the next moment he was seated in the bottom of the boat, which was rocking violently, and staring stupidly at Jem, who sat up staring back. "What yer do that for?" cried Jem angrily. "I'd only just closed my eyes." "I did not do anything," faltered Don, shivering. "Yes, you did!" cried Jem. "Asked me to sit up and watch, and I'd ha' done it. Needn't ha' played tricks." "I--I--" "There, don't say you didn't, Mas' Don. Boat's rocking now, and you'd better swab up that water. Nice row there'd be if the skipper come back and found the boat all wet." Jem picked up the swab and began to remove the water himself, and in doing so he noticed Don's face. "Why, hullo, Mas' Don! What's the matter? You look as white as--Why, what now?" Jem was about to lean over the side and wring the swab, when Don sprang astern and dragged him back. "Look! Look!" he cried, pointing. Jem followed the direction of the pointing finger, and shrank away with a shudder. "What? A shark!" he exclaimed. "Yes; it rose at me out of the water, and struck me in the chest, and I fell back, and so did he." "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem, as he seized the boathook, and rested it on the gunwale. "Don't touch, it," whispered Don; "it may spring out of the water at you." "It had better not," said Jem. "Hah!" He drove the boathook down with all his might, striking	and found our way right along the coast to some place where we could live till the ship had gone, and then wait till another ship came, we could get enough to eat?" "Dessay we could." "Because if we did, we should be quite independent, and could do as we liked." "To be sure, that's the way it seems to me; but just now, Mas' Don, I can only think of one thing." "What's that, Jem?" "How to get a bit of sleep, for the sun has made me as drowsy as a beedle." "Well, then, sit down and sleep." Jem wanted no persuasion, and in five minutes he was breathing very heavily, while Don sat watching the beauties of nature, the clouds of steam floating above the volcanic island, the wondrous sheen of the sea in the sun, the great lace-like tree-ferns which drooped over the mossy growth at the forest edge, and the beautiful butterflies which floated about like gaily-painted flowers in the golden light. Every now and then there was the sweet note of some bird ringing clearly in the air; then a loud and piercing screech heralded the coming of a parrot or cockatoo, which seemed tame enough to care little for the stranger who was watching its actions. Then all would be still again--a dreamy, sleepy stillness that was wonderfully attractive to Don as he sat with his eyes half-closed. In the distance he could see some of the Maoris coming and going in a listless, careless way, as if their life was a very pleasant indolence without a care.<\|quote\|>It was very beautiful and wonderfully attractive. On board the ship there were hard work, hard living, peremptory orders, and what seemed to the proud boy a state of slavery, while on shore offered itself a life of ease where there would be no battling with storm, and risk of war or shipwreck.</\|quote\|>Why should he not take advantage of this or some other opportunity, and steal ashore? It would be desertion, and setting aside the punishment held out to the one who forsook his ship after being forced into His Majesty's navy, there was a feeling troubling Don that it would be dishonourable to go. On the other side there was home, the strong desire to be free, and a love of adventure prompting him to escape. "No," he said decidedly at last; "it would be cowardly and base to desert. They treat me badly, but not hardly enough to make me run away. I'll stop and bear it like a man." Somehow Don felt lighter in heart after coming to this determination; and after looking round and wondering how long the explorers would be before they returned, and also wishing he could have been of the party, he leaned his elbows on the side of the boat and gazed down into the clear water, and through it at the beautiful lace-like pattern made by the sun, casting the netted shadow of the ripples on the soft pebbly sand. Now and then a shoal of fish glided in and dashed away. Then one brilliantly decked in gold and silver and blue came floating by, and Don watched it eagerly, wishing the while that he had a line. He was leaning over the side in this way, gazing down at the water, now about four feet deep where the boat had swung, when he became aware of something pale and shadowy some little distance off. Looking at it in a sloping direction made the ocean water seem so dense that he could not make out what it was for some little time. At first it seemed to be a dimly-seen patch of seaweed; then it appeared to be too regular and rounded, and it struck him that it must be a large transparent jelly-fish floating in with the tide, till he made out that it was continued backward from him, and that it was larger than he had imagined; and as he looked the object gradually grew plainer and more distinct. It was still shadowy and grey, and had a peculiar, strange attraction, which made him lean more over the side till a curious nightmare-like sensation came over him, and as he realised that the object was alive, and that he was looking down at two strange dull eyes, he felt that he could not shrink back, although the creeping chilly feeling which came over him seemed like a warning of danger. Then it all appeared more like a dream, in which he was striving hard to get away, and all the time obliged	Don Lavington
"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."	Ralph Denham	present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots	lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed	he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She	grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous,	from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me,"	the world I could live with happily. And if you feel the same about me as you do, don t you, Mary? we should make each other happy." Here he paused, and seemed to be in no hurry for an answer; he seemed, indeed, to be continuing his own thoughts. "Yes, but I m afraid I couldn t do it," Mary said at last. The casual and rather hurried way in which she spoke, together with the fact that she was saying the exact opposite of what he expected her to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly. "You couldn t do it?" he asked. "No, I couldn t marry you," she replied. "You don t care for me?" She made no answer. "Well, Mary," he said, with a curious laugh, "I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did." They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: "I don t believe you, Mary. You re not telling me the truth." "I m too tired to argue, Ralph," she replied, turning her head away from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather, "there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?" "Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of	way they spoke little. In his own mind Ralph was following the passage of the Otway carriage over the heath; he then went back to the five or ten minutes that he had spent with Katharine, and examined each word with the care that a scholar displays upon the irregularities of an ancient text. He was determined that the glow, the romance, the atmosphere of this meeting should not paint what he must in future regard as sober facts. On her side Mary was silent, not because her thoughts took much handling, but because her mind seemed empty of thought as her heart of feeling. Only Ralph s presence, as she knew, preserved this numbness, for she could foresee a time of loneliness when many varieties of pain would beset her. At the present moment her effort was to preserve what she could of the wreck of her self-respect, for such she deemed that momentary glimpse of her love so involuntarily revealed to Ralph. In the light of reason it did not much matter, perhaps, but it was her instinct to be careful of that vision of herself which keeps pace so evenly beside every one of us, and had been damaged by her confession. The gray night coming down over the country was kind to her; and she thought that one of these days she would find comfort in sitting upon the earth, alone, beneath a tree. Looking through the darkness, she marked the swelling ground and the tree. Ralph made her start by saying abruptly; "What I was going to say when we were interrupted at lunch was that if you go to America I shall come, too. It can t be harder to earn a living there than it is here. However, that s not the point. The point is, Mary, that I want to marry you. Well, what do you say?" He spoke firmly, waited for no answer, and took her arm in his. "You know me by this time, the good and the bad," he went on. "You know my tempers. I ve tried to let you know my faults. Well, what do you say, Mary?" She said nothing, but this did not seem to strike him. "In most ways, at least in the important ways, as you said, we know each other and we think alike. I believe you are the only person in the world I could live with happily. And if you feel the same about me as you do, don t you, Mary? we should make each other happy." Here he paused, and seemed to be in no hurry for an answer; he seemed, indeed, to be continuing his own thoughts. "Yes, but I m afraid I couldn t do it," Mary said at last. The casual and rather hurried way in which she spoke, together with the fact that she was saying the exact opposite of what he expected her to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly. "You couldn t do it?" he asked. "No, I couldn t marry you," she replied. "You don t care for me?" She made no answer. "Well, Mary," he said, with a curious laugh, "I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did." They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: "I don t believe you, Mary. You re not telling me the truth." "I m too tired to argue, Ralph," she replied, turning her head away from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather, "there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?" "Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or deeds that might have made her think badly of him. In his present mood instances came but too quickly, and on top of them this culminating proof of his baseness that he had asked her to marry him when his reasons for such a proposal were selfish and half-hearted. "You needn t answer," he said grimly. "There are reasons enough, I know. But must they kill our friendship, Mary? Let me keep that, at least." "Oh," she thought to herself, with a sudden rush of anguish which threatened disaster to her self-respect, "it has come to this to this when I could have given him everything!" "Yes, we can still be friends," she said, with what firmness she could muster. "I shall want your friendship," he said. He added, "If you find it possible, let me see you as often as you can. The oftener the better. I shall want your help." She promised this, and they went on to talk calmly of things that had no reference to their feelings a talk which, in its constraint, was infinitely sad to both of them. One more reference was made to the state of things between them late that night, when Elizabeth had gone to her room, and the two young men had stumbled off to bed in such a state of sleep that they hardly felt the floor beneath their feet after a day s shooting. Mary drew her chair a little nearer to the fire, for the logs were burning low, and at this time of night it was hardly worth while to replenish them. Ralph was reading, but she had noticed for some time that his eyes instead of following the print were fixed rather above the page with an intensity of gloom that came to weigh upon her mind. She had not weakened in her resolve not to give way, for reflection had only made her more bitterly certain that, if she gave way, it would be to her own wish and not to his. But she had determined that there was no reason why he should suffer if her reticence were the cause of his suffering. Therefore, although she found it	of these days she would find comfort in sitting upon the earth, alone, beneath a tree. Looking through the darkness, she marked the swelling ground and the tree. Ralph made her start by saying abruptly; "What I was going to say when we were interrupted at lunch was that if you go to America I shall come, too. It can t be harder to earn a living there than it is here. However, that s not the point. The point is, Mary, that I want to marry you. Well, what do you say?" He spoke firmly, waited for no answer, and took her arm in his. "You know me by this time, the good and the bad," he went on. "You know my tempers. I ve tried to let you know my faults. Well, what do you say, Mary?" She said nothing, but this did not seem to strike him. "In most ways, at least in the important ways, as you said, we know each other and we think alike. I believe you are the only person in the world I could live with happily. And if you feel the same about me as you do, don t you, Mary? we should make each other happy." Here he paused, and seemed to be in no hurry for an answer; he seemed, indeed, to be continuing his own thoughts. "Yes, but I m afraid I couldn t do it," Mary said at last. The casual and rather hurried way in which she spoke, together with the fact that she was saying the exact opposite of what he expected her to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly. "You couldn t do it?" he asked. "No, I couldn t marry you," she replied. "You don t care for me?" She made no answer. "Well, Mary," he said, with a curious laugh, "I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did." They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: "I don t believe you, Mary. You re not telling me the truth." "I m too tired to argue, Ralph," she replied, turning her head away from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams.<\|quote\|>"Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing."</\|quote\|>The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather, "there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?" "Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of	Night And Day
said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,	No speaker	drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children	so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different,	and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with	ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him	employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty. Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, "Not now, my dears; in the evening." On their return in the evening, he said, "I am not able yet to-morrow." He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate with him." "He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him aside?" "He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them." "Let me know," said her father, "if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark view	the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle before the people moved. When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. "I believe, father," said Louisa, "he will not come back to town to-night." Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more. In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty. Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, "Not now, my dears; in the evening." On their return in the evening, he said, "I am not able yet to-morrow." He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate with him." "He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him aside?" "He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them." "Let me know," said her father, "if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark view as mine." "I fear, father," hesitated Louisa, "that he must have made some representation to Stephen Blackpool perhaps in my name, perhaps in his own which induced him to do in good faith and honesty, what he had never done before, and to wait about the Bank those two or three nights before he left the town." "Too plain!" returned the father. "Too plain!" He shaded his face, and remained silent for some moments. Recovering himself, he said: "And now, how is he to be found? How is he to be saved from justice? In the few hours that I can possibly allow to elapse before I publish the truth, how is he to be found by us, and only by us? Ten thousand pounds could not effect it." "Sissy has effected it, father." He raised his eyes to where she stood, like a good fairy in his house, and said in a tone of softened gratitude and grateful kindness, "It is always you, my child!" "We had our fears," Sissy explained, glancing at Louisa, "before yesterday; and when I saw you brought to the side of the litter last night, and heard what passed (being close to Rachael all	"Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And your prayer is mine." "You ha' a father. Will yo tak' a message to him?" "He is here," said Louisa, with dread. "Shall I bring him to you?" "If yo please." Louisa returned with her father. Standing hand-in-hand, they both looked down upon the solemn countenance. "Sir, yo will clear me an' mak my name good wi' aw men. This I leave to yo." Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how? "Sir," was the reply: "yor son will tell yo how. Ask him. I mak no charges: I leave none ahint me: not a single word. I ha' seen an' spok'n wi' yor son, one night. I ask no more o' yo than that yo clear me an' I trust to yo to do 't." The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torches or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at the star: "Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin' on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided to Our Saviour's home. I awmust think it be the very star!" They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither the star seemed to him to lead. "Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand. We may walk toogether t'night, my dear!" "I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all the way." "Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased to coover my face!" They carried him very gently along the fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide landscape; Rachael always holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral procession. The star had shown him where to find the God of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer's rest. CHAPTER VII WHELP-HUNTING BEFORE the ring formed round the Old Hell Shaft was broken, one figure had disappeared from within it. Mr. Bounderby and his shadow had not stood near Louisa, who held her father's arm, but in a retired place by themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle before the people moved. When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. "I believe, father," said Louisa, "he will not come back to town to-night." Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more. In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty. Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, "Not now, my dears; in the evening." On their return in the evening, he said, "I am not able yet to-morrow." He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate with him." "He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him aside?" "He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them." "Let me know," said her father, "if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark view as mine." "I fear, father," hesitated Louisa, "that he must have made some representation to Stephen Blackpool perhaps in my name, perhaps in his own which induced him to do in good faith and honesty, what he had never done before, and to wait about the Bank those two or three nights before he left the town." "Too plain!" returned the father. "Too plain!" He shaded his face, and remained silent for some moments. Recovering himself, he said: "And now, how is he to be found? How is he to be saved from justice? In the few hours that I can possibly allow to elapse before I publish the truth, how is he to be found by us, and only by us? Ten thousand pounds could not effect it." "Sissy has effected it, father." He raised his eyes to where she stood, like a good fairy in his house, and said in a tone of softened gratitude and grateful kindness, "It is always you, my child!" "We had our fears," Sissy explained, glancing at Louisa, "before yesterday; and when I saw you brought to the side of the litter last night, and heard what passed (being close to Rachael all the time), I went to him when no one saw, and said to him," "Don't look at me. See where your father is. Escape at once, for his sake and your own!" "He was in a tremble before I whispered to him, and he started and trembled more then, and said," "Where can I go? I have very little money, and I don't know who will hide me!" "I thought of father's old circus. I have not forgotten where Mr. Sleary goes at this time of year, and I read of him in a paper only the other day. I told him to hurry there, and tell his name, and ask Mr. Sleary to hide him till I came." "I'll get to him before the morning," "he said. And I saw him shrink away among the people." "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed his father. "He may be got abroad yet." It was the more hopeful as the town to which Sissy had directed him was within three hours' journey of Liverpool, whence he could be swiftly dispatched to any part of the world. But, caution being necessary in communicating with him for there was a greater danger every moment of his being suspected now, and nobody could be sure at heart but that Mr. Bounderby himself, in a bullying vein of public zeal, might play a Roman part it was consented that Sissy and Louisa should repair to the place in question, by a circuitous course, alone; and that the unhappy father, setting forth in an opposite direction, should get round to the same bourne by another and wider route. It was further agreed that he should not present himself to Mr. Sleary, lest his intentions should be mistrusted, or the intelligence of his arrival should cause his son to take flight anew; but, that the communication should be left to Sissy and Louisa to open; and that they should inform the cause of so much misery and disgrace, of his father's being at hand and of the purpose for which they had come. When these arrangements had been well considered and were fully understood by all three, it was time to begin to carry them into execution. Early in the afternoon, Mr. Gradgrind walked direct from his own house into the country, to be taken up on the line by which he was to travel; and at night the remaining two	themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight but one and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle before the people moved. When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his son to come to him directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. "I believe, father," said Louisa, "he will not come back to town to-night." Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no more. In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place empty (he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool's memory, and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its beauty. Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without opening it, "Not now, my dears; in the evening." On their return in the evening, he said, "I am not able yet to-morrow." He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dark; and they heard him walking to and fro late at night. But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and so, with his gray head drooping, went away. "Dear father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa, when they kept their appointment,</\|quote\|>"you have three young children left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven's help." She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help too. "Your wretched brother," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?" "I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal." "The poor man being about to leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?" "I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. The visit did not originate with him." "He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he take him aside?" "He took him out of the room. I asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them." "Let me know," said her father, "if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark view as mine." "I fear, father," hesitated Louisa, "that he must have made some representation to Stephen Blackpool perhaps in my name, perhaps in his own which induced him to do in good faith and honesty, what he had never done before, and to wait about the Bank those two or three nights before he left the town." "Too plain!" returned the father. "Too plain!" He shaded his face, and remained silent for some moments. Recovering himself, he said: "And now, how is he to be found? How is he to be saved from justice? In the few hours that I can possibly allow to elapse before I publish the truth, how is he to be found by us, and only by us? Ten thousand pounds could not effect it." "Sissy has effected it, father." He raised his eyes to where she stood, like a good fairy in his house, and said in a tone of softened gratitude and grateful kindness, "It is always you, my child!" "We had our fears," Sissy explained, glancing at Louisa, "before yesterday; and when I saw you brought to the side of the litter last night, and heard what passed (being close to Rachael all the time), I went to him when no one saw, and said to him," "Don't look at me. See where your father is. Escape at once, for his sake and your own!" "He was in a tremble before I whispered to him, and he started	Hard Times
"No, sir,"	Mr. Frank Churchill	it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I	can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it	if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it	his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?" "Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment." "Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had	horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse. "By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?" Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever had any such plan." "Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago." "Me! impossible!" "Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?" "Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment." "Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?" Emma was out	what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight, "Myself creating what I saw," brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane. He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation. As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse. "By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?" Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever had any such plan." "Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago." "Me! impossible!" "Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?" "Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment." "Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?" Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston's hint. "Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly	not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value." Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation. CHAPTER V In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her grandmother's; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton's activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her will. Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father's hints, his mother-in-law's guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence between them--he thought so at least--symptoms of admiration on his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any of Emma's errors of imagination. _She_ was not present when the suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight, "Myself creating what I saw," brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane. He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation. As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse. "By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?" Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever had any such plan." "Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago." "Me! impossible!" "Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?" "Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment." "Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?" Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston's hint. "Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother--indeed I do not know who is not--and she had mentioned it to her in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the least thing in the world. Where is she?--Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming.--Extraordinary dream, indeed!" They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss Bates's in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill's face, where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the determination of catching her eye--he seemed watching her intently--in vain, however, if it were so--Jane passed between them into the hall, and looked at neither. There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move. "Miss Woodhouse," said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind him, which he could reach as he sat, "have your nephews taken away their alphabets--their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters one morning. I want to puzzle you again." Emma was pleased with the thought; and	suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight, "Myself creating what I saw," brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane. He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation. As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse. "By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?" Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever had any such plan." "Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago." "Me! impossible!" "Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?" "Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment." "Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home." "What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"<\|quote\|>"No, sir,"</\|quote\|>replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry." "It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?" Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston's hint. "Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother--indeed I do not know who is not--and she had mentioned it to her in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the least thing in the world. Where is she?--Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming.--Extraordinary dream, indeed!" They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss Bates's in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill's face, where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to hers; but	Emma
Her mother dropped her head in her hands.	No speaker	to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I	to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll	be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from	around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up	Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up early and practising hard for her interview with the managing star of "Martin's Blackbirds." When she arrived at the theatre, Hattie Sterling met her with frank friendliness. "I 'm glad you came early, Kitty," she remarked, "for maybe you can get a chance to talk with Martin before he begins rehearsal and gets all worked up. He 'll be a little less like a bear then. But even if you don't see him before then, wait, and don't get scared if he tries to bluff you. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite." When Mr. Martin came	stage people respectable up here." "Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust." "You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a pen'tentiary sentence is de same as a divo'ce, an' if Be'y should live to git out, we 'd have to ma'y ag'in. I would n't min' dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up early and practising hard for her interview with the managing star of "Martin's Blackbirds." When she arrived at the theatre, Hattie Sterling met her with frank friendliness. "I 'm glad you came early, Kitty," she remarked, "for maybe you can get a chance to talk with Martin before he begins rehearsal and gets all worked up. He 'll be a little less like a bear then. But even if you don't see him before then, wait, and don't get scared if he tries to bluff you. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite." When Mr. Martin came in that morning, he had other ideas than that of seeing applicants for places. His show must begin in two weeks, and it was advertised to be larger and better than ever before, when really nothing at all had been done for it. The promise of this advertisement must be fulfilled. Mr. Martin was late, and was out of humour with every one else on account of it. He came in hurried, fierce, and important. "Mornin', Mr. Smith, mornin', Mrs. Jones. Ha, ladies and gentlemen, all here?" He shot every word out of his mouth as if the after-taste of it were unpleasant to him. He walked among the chorus like an angry king among his vassals, and his glance was a flash of insolent fire. From his head to his feet he was the very epitome of self-sufficient, brutal conceit. Kitty trembled as she noted the hush that fell on the people at his entrance. She felt like rushing out of the room. She could never face this terrible man. She trembled more as she found his eyes fixed upon her. "Who 's that?" he asked, disregarding her, as if she had been a stick or a stone. "Well,	Joe did not rise. "I 'll see you later, Kit," he said; "I ain't goin' just yet. Say," he added, when his sister was gone, "you 're a hot one. What do you want to give her all that con for? She 'll never get in." "Joe," said Hattie, "don't you get awful tired of being a jackass? Sometimes I want to kiss you, and sometimes I feel as if I had to kick you. I 'll compromise with you now by letting you bring me some more beer. This got all stale while your sister was here. I saw she did n't like it, and so I would n't drink any more for fear she 'd try to keep up with me." "Kit is a good deal of a jay yet," Joe remarked wisely. "Oh, yes, this world is full of jays. Lots of 'em have seen enough to make 'em wise, but they 're still jays, and don't know it. That 's the worst of it. They go around thinking they 're it, when they ain't even in the game. Go on and get the beer." And Joe went, feeling vaguely that he had been sat upon. Kit flew home with joyous heart to tell her mother of her good prospects. She burst into the room, crying, "Oh, ma, ma, Miss Hattie thinks I 'll do to go on the stage. Ain't it grand?" She did not meet with the expected warmth of response from her mother. "I do' know as it 'll be so gran'. F'om what I see of dem stage people dey don't seem to 'mount to much. De way dem gals shows demse'ves is right down bad to me. Is you goin' to dress lak dem we seen dat night?" Kit hung her head. "I guess I 'll have to." "Well, ef you have to, I 'd ruther see you daid any day. Oh, Kit, my little gal, don't do it, don't do it. Don't you go down lak yo' brothah Joe. Joe 's gone." "Why, ma, you don't understand. Joe 's somebody now. You ought to 've heard how Miss Hattie talked about him. She said he 's been her friend for a long while." "Her frien', yes, an' his own inimy. You need n' pattern aftah dat gal, Kit. She ruint Joe, an' she 's aftah you now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here." "Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust." "You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a pen'tentiary sentence is de same as a divo'ce, an' if Be'y should live to git out, we 'd have to ma'y ag'in. I would n't min' dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up early and practising hard for her interview with the managing star of "Martin's Blackbirds." When she arrived at the theatre, Hattie Sterling met her with frank friendliness. "I 'm glad you came early, Kitty," she remarked, "for maybe you can get a chance to talk with Martin before he begins rehearsal and gets all worked up. He 'll be a little less like a bear then. But even if you don't see him before then, wait, and don't get scared if he tries to bluff you. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite." When Mr. Martin came in that morning, he had other ideas than that of seeing applicants for places. His show must begin in two weeks, and it was advertised to be larger and better than ever before, when really nothing at all had been done for it. The promise of this advertisement must be fulfilled. Mr. Martin was late, and was out of humour with every one else on account of it. He came in hurried, fierce, and important. "Mornin', Mr. Smith, mornin', Mrs. Jones. Ha, ladies and gentlemen, all here?" He shot every word out of his mouth as if the after-taste of it were unpleasant to him. He walked among the chorus like an angry king among his vassals, and his glance was a flash of insolent fire. From his head to his feet he was the very epitome of self-sufficient, brutal conceit. Kitty trembled as she noted the hush that fell on the people at his entrance. She felt like rushing out of the room. She could never face this terrible man. She trembled more as she found his eyes fixed upon her. "Who 's that?" he asked, disregarding her, as if she had been a stick or a stone. "Well, don't snap her head off. It 's a girl friend of mine that wants a place," said Hattie. She was the only one who would brave Martin. "Humph. Let her wait. I ain't got no time to hear any one now. Get yourselves in line, you all who are on to that first chorus, while I 'm getting into my sweat-shirt." He disappeared behind a screen, whence he emerged arrayed, or only half arrayed, in a thick absorbing shirt and a thin pair of woollen trousers. Then the work began. The man was indefatigable. He was like the spirit of energy. He was in every place about the stage at once, leading the chorus, showing them steps, twisting some awkward girl into shape, shouting, gesticulating, abusing the pianist. "Now, now," he would shout, "the left foot on that beat. Bah, bah, stop! You walk like a lot of tin soldiers. Are your joints rusty? Do you want oil? Look here, Taylor, if I did n't know you, I 'd take you for a truck. Pick up your feet, open your mouths, and move, move, move! Oh!" and he would drop his head in despair. "And to think that I 've got to do something with these things in two weeks--two weeks!" Then he would turn to them again with a sudden reaccession of eagerness. "Now, at it again, at it again! Hold that note, hold it! Now whirl, and on the left foot. Stop that music, stop it! Miss Coster, you 'll learn that step in about a thousand years, and I 've got nine hundred and ninety-nine years and fifty weeks less time than that to spare. Come here and try that step with me. Don't be afraid to move. Step like a chicken on a hot griddle!" And some blushing girl would come forward and go through the step alone before all the rest. Kitty contemplated the scene with a mind equally divided between fear and anger. What should she do if he should so speak to her? Like the others, no doubt, smile sheepishly and obey him. But she did not like to believe it. She felt that the independence which she had known from babyhood would assert itself, and that she would talk back to him, even as Hattie Sterling did. She felt scared and discouraged, but every now and then her friend smiled encouragingly upon	a long while." "Her frien', yes, an' his own inimy. You need n' pattern aftah dat gal, Kit. She ruint Joe, an' she 's aftah you now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here." "Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust." "You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a pen'tentiary sentence is de same as a divo'ce, an' if Be'y should live to git out, we 'd have to ma'y ag'in. I would n't min' dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now."<\|quote\|>Her mother dropped her head in her hands.</\|quote\|>"All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up early and practising hard for her interview with the managing star of "Martin's Blackbirds." When she arrived at the theatre, Hattie Sterling met her with frank friendliness. "I 'm glad you came early, Kitty," she remarked, "for maybe you can get a chance to talk with Martin before he begins rehearsal and gets all worked up. He 'll be a little less like a bear then. But even if you don't see him before then, wait, and don't get scared if he tries to bluff you. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite." When Mr. Martin came in that morning, he had other ideas than that of seeing applicants for places. His show must begin in two weeks, and it was advertised to be larger and better than ever before, when really nothing at all had been done for it. The promise of this advertisement must be fulfilled. Mr. Martin was late, and was out of humour with every one else on account of it. He came in hurried, fierce, and important. "Mornin', Mr. Smith, mornin', Mrs. Jones. Ha, ladies and gentlemen, all here?" He shot every word out of his mouth as if the after-taste of it were unpleasant to him. He walked among the chorus like an angry king among his vassals, and his glance was a flash of insolent fire. From his head to his feet he was the very epitome of self-sufficient, brutal conceit. Kitty trembled as she noted the hush that fell on the people at his entrance. She felt like rushing out of the room. She could never face this terrible man. She trembled more as she found his eyes fixed upon her. "Who 's that?" he asked, disregarding her, as if she had been a stick or a stone. "Well, don't snap her head off. It 's a girl friend of mine that wants a place," said Hattie. She was the only one who would brave Martin. "Humph. Let her wait. I ain't got no time to hear any one now. Get yourselves in line, you	The Sport Of The Gods
said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.	No speaker	to trouble ourselves to move,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"She'll take the luggage upstairs	you outside." "There's no occasion to trouble ourselves to move,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"She'll take the luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to	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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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	a till, or a pocket, or a woman's reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly." Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy paleness and excessive terror. "Don't mind me, my dear," said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. "Ha! ha! it was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me." "I didn't take it," stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his chair; "it was all her doing; yer've got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have." "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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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	see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer." "Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!" exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon his ugly face. "There, that'll do: don't yer be too affectionate, in case I'm cross with yer," said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. "I should like to be the captain of some band, and have the whopping of 'em, and follering 'em about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good profit; and if we could only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you've got, especially as we don't very well know how to get rid of it ourselves." After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him. The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he made, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney. "A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year," said Fagin, rubbing his hands. "From the country, I see, sir?" "How do yer see that?" asked Noah Claypole. "We have not so much dust as that in London," replied Fagin, pointing from Noah's shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles. "Yer a sharp feller," said Noah. "Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!" "Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear," replied the Jew, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; "and that's the truth." Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger, a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner. "Good stuff that," observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips. "Dear!" said Fagin. "A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman's reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly." Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy paleness and excessive terror. "Don't mind me, my dear," said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. "Ha! ha! it was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me." "I didn't take it," stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his chair; "it was all her doing; yer've got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have." "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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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!" observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. "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	"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,"<\|quote\|>said Noah, getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad again.</\|quote\|>"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!	Oliver Twist
"Yes, I'm here."	Brenda	hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?"	means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel	coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver	Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had	possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think	to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?" "But look here, my dear fellow." "Good night. Thank you for the dinner. Good luck to the excavations." On his way out of the club he noticed that John Beaver of Bratt's Club was up for election. * * * * * "Who on earth would have expected the old boy to turn up like that?" asked Polly Cockpurse. "Now I understand why they keep going on in the papers about divorce law reform," said Veronica. "It's _too_ monstrous that he should be allowed to get away with it." "The mistake they made was in telling him first," said Souki. "It's so like Brenda to trust everyone," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. * * * * * "I do think Tony comes out of this pretty poorly," said Marjorie. "Oh, I don't know," said Allan. "I expect your ass of a brother put the thing wrong." CHAPTER V IN SEARCH OF A CITY [I] "any idea how many times round the deck	own and there will be no more coming to her. My mother's income is an allowance which I pay under my father's will. I shan't be able to give her anything. I am trying to raise everything I can for an expedition to one of the oases in the Libyan desert. This chap Beaver has got practically nothing and doesn't look like earning any. So you see--" "But, my dear Reggie, you know as well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England." "Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?" "Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?" "But look here, my dear fellow." "Good night. Thank you for the dinner. Good luck to the excavations." On his way out of the club he noticed that John Beaver of Bratt's Club was up for election. * * * * * "Who on earth would have expected the old boy to turn up like that?" asked Polly Cockpurse. "Now I understand why they keep going on in the papers about divorce law reform," said Veronica. "It's _too_ monstrous that he should be allowed to get away with it." "The mistake they made was in telling him first," said Souki. "It's so like Brenda to trust everyone," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. * * * * * "I do think Tony comes out of this pretty poorly," said Marjorie. "Oh, I don't know," said Allan. "I expect your ass of a brother put the thing wrong." CHAPTER V IN SEARCH OF A CITY [I] "any idea how many times round the deck make a mile?" "None, I'm afraid," said Tony. "But I should think you must have walked a great distance." "Twenty-two times. One soon gets out of sorts at sea if you're used to an active life. She's not much of a boat. Travel with this line often?" "Never before." "Ah. Thought you might have been in business in the islands. Not many tourists going out this time of year. Just the other way about. All coming home, if you see what I mean. Going far?" "Demerara." "Ah. Looking for minerals perhaps?" "No, to tell you the truth I am looking for a city." The genial passenger was surprised and then laughed. "Sounded just like you said you were looking for a city." "Yes." "That _was_ what you said?" "Yes." "I thought it sounded like that... well, so long. I must do another few rounds before dinner." He paced off up the deck, straddling slightly in order to keep his balance and occasionally putting out a hand to the rail for support. Regularly every three minutes for the last hour or so, this man had come by. At first Tony had looked up at his approach and then turned away again, out to sea. Presently the man had taken to nodding, then to saying "Hullo" or "Bit choppy" or "Here we are again" "; finally he had stopped and began a conversation. Tony went aft to break this rather embarrassing sequence. He descended the companion way which led to the lower deck. Here, in crates lashed to the side, was a variety of livestock--some stud bulls, a heavily blanketed racehorse, a couple of beagles, being exported to various West Indian islands. Tony threaded a way between them and the hatches to the stern, where he sat against a winch watching the horizon mount above the funnels, then fall until they stood out black against the darkening sky. The pitch was more sensible here than it had been amidships; the animals shifted restlessly in their cramped quarters; the beagles whined intermittently. A lascar took down from a line some washing which had been flapping there all day. The wash of the ship was quickly lost in the high waves. They were steaming westward down the Channel. As it grew to be night, lighthouses appeared flashing from the French coast. Presently a steward walked round the bright, upper deck striking chimes on a	everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England." "Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?" "Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I'm here."</\|quote\|>"You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?" "But look here, my dear fellow." "Good night. Thank you for the dinner. Good luck to the excavations." On his way out of the club he noticed that John Beaver of Bratt's Club was up for election. * * * * * "Who on earth would have expected the old boy to turn up like that?" asked Polly Cockpurse. "Now I understand why they keep going on in the papers about divorce law reform," said Veronica. "It's _too_ monstrous that he should be allowed to get away with it." "The mistake they made was in telling him first," said Souki. "It's so like Brenda to trust everyone," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. * * * * * "I do think Tony comes out of this pretty poorly," said Marjorie. "Oh, I don't know," said Allan. "I expect your ass of a brother put the thing wrong." CHAPTER V IN SEARCH OF A CITY [I] "any idea how many times round the deck make a mile?" "None, I'm afraid," said Tony. "But I should think you must have walked a great distance." "Twenty-two times. One soon gets out of sorts at sea if you're used to an active life. She's not much of a boat. Travel with this line often?" "Never before." "Ah. Thought you might have been in business in the islands. Not many tourists going out this time of year. Just the other way about. All coming home, if you see what I mean. Going far?" "Demerara." "Ah. Looking for minerals perhaps?" "No, to tell you the truth I am looking for a city." The genial passenger was surprised and then laughed. "Sounded just like you said you were looking for a city." "Yes." "That _was_ what you said?" "Yes." "I thought it sounded like that... well, so long. I must do another few rounds before dinner." He paced off up the deck, straddling slightly in	A Handful Of Dust
he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.	No speaker	first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking	other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by	March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw	and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony.	and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination--concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual. "Got the ring all right?" whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility. Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony. Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts's keen eyes would discover in the ritual of his divinity; then he suddenly recalled that he too had once thought such questions important. The things that had filled his days seemed now like a nursery parody of life, or like the wrangles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysical terms that nobody had ever understood. A stormy discussion as to whether the wedding presents should be "shown" had darkened the last hours before the wedding; and it seemed inconceivable to Archer that grown-up people should work themselves into a state of agitation over such trifles, and	Archer had gone through this formality as resignedly as through all the others which made of a nineteenth century New York wedding a rite that seemed to belong to the dawn of history. Everything was equally easy--or equally painful, as one chose to put it--in the path he was committed to tread, and he had obeyed the flurried injunctions of his best man as piously as other bridegrooms had obeyed his own, in the days when he had guided them through the same labyrinth. So far he was reasonably sure of having fulfilled all his obligations. The bridesmaids' eight bouquets of white lilac and lilies-of-the-valley had been sent in due time, as well as the gold and sapphire sleeve-links of the eight ushers and the best man's cat's-eye scarf-pin; Archer had sat up half the night trying to vary the wording of his thanks for the last batch of presents from men friends and ex-lady-loves; the fees for the Bishop and the Rector were safely in the pocket of his best man; his own luggage was already at Mrs. Manson Mingott's, where the wedding-breakfast was to take place, and so were the travelling clothes into which he was to change; and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination--concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual. "Got the ring all right?" whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility. Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony. Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts's keen eyes would discover in the ritual of his divinity; then he suddenly recalled that he too had once thought such questions important. The things that had filled his days seemed now like a nursery parody of life, or like the wrangles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysical terms that nobody had ever understood. A stormy discussion as to whether the wedding presents should be "shown" had darkened the last hours before the wedding; and it seemed inconceivable to Archer that grown-up people should work themselves into a state of agitation over such trifles, and that the matter should have been decided (in the negative) by Mrs. Welland's saying, with indignant tears: "I should as soon turn the reporters loose in my house." Yet there was a time when Archer had had definite and rather aggressive opinions on all such problems, and when everything concerning the manners and customs of his little tribe had seemed to him fraught with world-wide significance. "And all the while, I suppose," he thought, "real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them ..." "THERE THEY COME!" breathed the best man excitedly; but the bridegroom knew better. The cautious opening of the door of the church meant only that Mr. Brown the livery-stable keeper (gowned in black in his intermittent character of sexton) was taking a preliminary survey of the scene before marshalling his forces. The door was softly shut again; then after another interval it swung majestically open, and a murmur ran through the church: "The family!" Mrs. Welland came first, on the arm of her eldest son. Her large pink face was appropriately solemn, and her plum-coloured satin with pale blue side-panels, and blue ostrich plumes in a small satin bonnet, met with general approval; but	Rector so happy love May." Archer crumpled up the yellow sheet as if the gesture could annihilate the news it contained. Then he pulled out a small pocket-diary and turned over the pages with trembling fingers; but he did not find what he wanted, and cramming the telegram into his pocket he mounted the stairs. A light was shining through the door of the little hall-room which served Janey as a dressing-room and boudoir, and her brother rapped impatiently on the panel. The door opened, and his sister stood before him in her immemorial purple flannel dressing-gown, with her hair "on pins." Her face looked pale and apprehensive. "Newland! I hope there's no bad news in that telegram? I waited on purpose, in case--" (No item of his correspondence was safe from Janey.) He took no notice of her question. "Look here--what day is Easter this year?" She looked shocked at such unchristian ignorance. "Easter? Newland! Why, of course, the first week in April. Why?" "The first week?" He turned again to the pages of his diary, calculating rapidly under his breath. "The first week, did you say?" He threw back his head with a long laugh. "For mercy's sake what's the matter?" "Nothing's the matter, except that I'm going to be married in a month." Janey fell upon his neck and pressed him to her purple flannel breast. "Oh Newland, how wonderful! I'm so glad! But, dearest, why do you keep on laughing? Do hush, or you'll wake Mamma." Book II XIX. The day was fresh, with a lively spring wind full of dust. All the old ladies in both families had got out their faded sables and yellowing ermines, and the smell of camphor from the front pews almost smothered the faint spring scent of the lilies banking the altar. Newland Archer, at a signal from the sexton, had come out of the vestry and placed himself with his best man on the chancel step of Grace Church. The signal meant that the brougham bearing the bride and her father was in sight; but there was sure to be a considerable interval of adjustment and consultation in the lobby, where the bridesmaids were already hovering like a cluster of Easter blossoms. During this unavoidable lapse of time the bridegroom, in proof of his eagerness, was expected to expose himself alone to the gaze of the assembled company; and Archer had gone through this formality as resignedly as through all the others which made of a nineteenth century New York wedding a rite that seemed to belong to the dawn of history. Everything was equally easy--or equally painful, as one chose to put it--in the path he was committed to tread, and he had obeyed the flurried injunctions of his best man as piously as other bridegrooms had obeyed his own, in the days when he had guided them through the same labyrinth. So far he was reasonably sure of having fulfilled all his obligations. The bridesmaids' eight bouquets of white lilac and lilies-of-the-valley had been sent in due time, as well as the gold and sapphire sleeve-links of the eight ushers and the best man's cat's-eye scarf-pin; Archer had sat up half the night trying to vary the wording of his thanks for the last batch of presents from men friends and ex-lady-loves; the fees for the Bishop and the Rector were safely in the pocket of his best man; his own luggage was already at Mrs. Manson Mingott's, where the wedding-breakfast was to take place, and so were the travelling clothes into which he was to change; and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination--concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual. "Got the ring all right?" whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility. Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony. Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts's keen eyes would discover in the ritual of his divinity; then he suddenly recalled that he too had once thought such questions important. The things that had filled his days seemed now like a nursery parody of life, or like the wrangles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysical terms that nobody had ever understood. A stormy discussion as to whether the wedding presents should be "shown" had darkened the last hours before the wedding; and it seemed inconceivable to Archer that grown-up people should work themselves into a state of agitation over such trifles, and that the matter should have been decided (in the negative) by Mrs. Welland's saying, with indignant tears: "I should as soon turn the reporters loose in my house." Yet there was a time when Archer had had definite and rather aggressive opinions on all such problems, and when everything concerning the manners and customs of his little tribe had seemed to him fraught with world-wide significance. "And all the while, I suppose," he thought, "real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them ..." "THERE THEY COME!" breathed the best man excitedly; but the bridegroom knew better. The cautious opening of the door of the church meant only that Mr. Brown the livery-stable keeper (gowned in black in his intermittent character of sexton) was taking a preliminary survey of the scene before marshalling his forces. The door was softly shut again; then after another interval it swung majestically open, and a murmur ran through the church: "The family!" Mrs. Welland came first, on the arm of her eldest son. Her large pink face was appropriately solemn, and her plum-coloured satin with pale blue side-panels, and blue ostrich plumes in a small satin bonnet, met with general approval; but before she had settled herself with a stately rustle in the pew opposite Mrs. Archer's the spectators were craning their necks to see who was coming after her. Wild rumours had been abroad the day before to the effect that Mrs. Manson Mingott, in spite of her physical disabilities, had resolved on being present at the ceremony; and the idea was so much in keeping with her sporting character that bets ran high at the clubs as to her being able to walk up the nave and squeeze into a seat. It was known that she had insisted on sending her own carpenter to look into the possibility of taking down the end panel of the front pew, and to measure the space between the seat and the front; but the result had been discouraging, and for one anxious day her family had watched her dallying with the plan of being wheeled up the nave in her enormous Bath chair and sitting enthroned in it at the foot of the chancel. The idea of this monstrous exposure of her person was so painful to her relations that they could have covered with gold the ingenious person who suddenly discovered that the chair was too wide to pass between the iron uprights of the awning which extended from the church door to the curbstone. The idea of doing away with this awning, and revealing the bride to the mob of dressmakers and newspaper reporters who stood outside fighting to get near the joints of the canvas, exceeded even old Catherine's courage, though for a moment she had weighed the possibility. "Why, they might take a photograph of my child AND PUT IT IN THE PAPERS!" Mrs. Welland exclaimed when her mother's last plan was hinted to her; and from this unthinkable indecency the clan recoiled with a collective shudder. The ancestress had had to give in; but her concession was bought only by the promise that the wedding-breakfast should take place under her roof, though (as the Washington Square connection said) with the Wellands' house in easy reach it was hard to have to make a special price with Brown to drive one to the other end of nowhere. Though all these transactions had been widely reported by the Jacksons a sporting minority still clung to the belief that old Catherine would appear in church, and there was a distinct lowering	for the Bishop and the Rector were safely in the pocket of his best man; his own luggage was already at Mrs. Manson Mingott's, where the wedding-breakfast was to take place, and so were the travelling clothes into which he was to change; and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination--concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual. "Got the ring all right?" whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility. Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!"<\|quote\|>he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff.</\|quote\|>"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony. Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts's keen eyes would discover in the ritual of his divinity; then he suddenly recalled that he too had once thought such questions important. The things that had filled his days seemed now like a nursery parody of life, or like the wrangles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysical terms that nobody had ever understood. A stormy discussion as to whether the wedding presents should be "shown" had darkened the last hours before the wedding; and it seemed inconceivable to Archer that grown-up people should work themselves into a state of agitation over such trifles, and that the matter should have been decided (in the negative) by Mrs. Welland's saying, with indignant tears: "I should as soon turn the reporters loose in my house." Yet there was a time when Archer had had definite and rather aggressive opinions on all such problems, and when everything concerning the manners and customs of his little tribe had seemed to him fraught with world-wide significance. "And all the while, I suppose," he thought, "real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them ..." "THERE THEY COME!" breathed the best man excitedly; but	The Age Of Innocence
whispered Don.	No speaker	"Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and	understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something	great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick!	joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even	caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to	a grip, that had he dared to struggle to free himself, it would not have been possible to drag the fettered arm away. "Jem! Help!" was on his lips, but he uttered no cry, only breathlessly listened to a deep panting from the outer side of the _pah_. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. AFTER SUSPENSE. What would happen? A powerful savage had hold of him firmly, had caught him just as he was about to escape; and the next thing would be that he would feel a spear driven through the opening between the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face. "I've found the post, Mas' Don!" he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await Jem's coming. Ngati was more intelligent than Don had expected, for directly after he felt two great warm hands placed under to support his bare feet. These were raised and lowered a little; and, seizing the opportunity, he let himself sink down, till Ngati placed his feet upon two broad shoulders, and then Don felt himself seized by the hips, and lifted to the ground. As this went on Don could feel the post he had climbed vibrating, and though he could not see, he could tell that Jem had mounted to the top. "Where are you?" whispered Jem. "Look out! Ngati will help you." Jem grasped the situation, and the chief caught his feet, lowering him slowly, when all at once something seemed to spring out of the darkness, knocking Don right over, and seizing Ngati. That it was one of the guards there could be no doubt, for the man raised the alarm, and held on to the prisoner he had made, Jem going down awkwardly in turn. He and Don could have fled at once, but they could not leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally	Don placed his lips to his ear. "Whereabouts was it?" "Somewhere 'bout here. You try one way, and I'll try the other," whispered Jem; and then Don gripped his arm, and they stood listening, for a faint rustling sound seemed to come from outside. The noise was not repeated; but for quite half an hour they remained listening, till, gaining courage from the silence--the Maori guard only speaking from time to time, and then in a low, drowsy voice--Don began to follow Jem's suggestion, feeling post after post, and sometimes passing his arm through. But every one of the stout pales he touched was smooth and unclimbable without some help; and thinking that perhaps he had missed the place, he began to move back in the darkness, straining his ears the while to catch any sound made by his companion. But all was perfectly still, and every pale he touched was smooth and regular, set, too, so close to the next that there was not the slightest chance of even a child creeping through. All at once there was a rustling sound on his left. "Jem has found it," he thought; and he pressed forward toward where he had parted from Jem, passing one hand along the pales, the other extended so as to touch his companion as soon as they were near. The rustling sound again close at hand; but he dare not speak, only creep on in the dense blackness, straining his eyes to see; and his ears to catch his companion's breath. "Ah!" Don uttered a sigh of satisfaction, for it was painful to be alone at such a time, and he had at last touched the strong sturdy arm which was slightly withdrawn, and then the hand gripped him firmly. Don remained motionless, listening for the danger which must be threatening, or else Jem would have spoken; but at last the silence became so irksome that the prisoner raised his left hand to grasp Jem's wrist. But it was not Jem's wrist. It was bigger and stouter; and quick as thought Don ran his hand along the arm to force back the holder of his arm, when to his horror, he found that the limb had been thrust through one of the openings of the fence, and he was a prisoner to some fierce chief who had suspected the design to escape, held in so strong a grip, that had he dared to struggle to free himself, it would not have been possible to drag the fettered arm away. "Jem! Help!" was on his lips, but he uttered no cry, only breathlessly listened to a deep panting from the outer side of the _pah_. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. AFTER SUSPENSE. What would happen? A powerful savage had hold of him firmly, had caught him just as he was about to escape; and the next thing would be that he would feel a spear driven through the opening between the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face. "I've found the post, Mas' Don!" he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await Jem's coming. Ngati was more intelligent than Don had expected, for directly after he felt two great warm hands placed under to support his bare feet. These were raised and lowered a little; and, seizing the opportunity, he let himself sink down, till Ngati placed his feet upon two broad shoulders, and then Don felt himself seized by the hips, and lifted to the ground. As this went on Don could feel the post he had climbed vibrating, and though he could not see, he could tell that Jem had mounted to the top. "Where are you?" whispered Jem. "Look out! Ngati will help you." Jem grasped the situation, and the chief caught his feet, lowering him slowly, when all at once something seemed to spring out of the darkness, knocking Don right over, and seizing Ngati. That it was one of the guards there could be no doubt, for the man raised the alarm, and held on to the prisoner he had made, Jem going down awkwardly in turn. He and Don could have fled at once, but they could not leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally to feel his way to Ngati's help, no easy task in the darkness when two men are struggling. At last he was successful, and got a grip of one of the combatants' throat; but a hoarse, "No, pakeha!" told him of his mistake. He rectified it directly, getting his arm round the neck of the guard, tightening his grasp, and with such good effect, that Ngati wrenched himself free, and directly after Don heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!" "Here!" whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet, shouts below, in the _pah_, and close at hand. Ngati seized Don's hand, and after stooping down, thrust a spear into it. Then, uttering a grunt, he placed another spear in Jem's hand, the spoils of their fallen enemy, and leaving him for a moment, he felt along the fence for his own weapon. He spoke no more, but by means of action made Don understand that he would go first, holding his spear at the trail, he grasping one end, Don the other. Jem was to do likewise, and thus linked together they would not be separated. All this took time, and during the brief moments that elapsed it was evident that the whole tribe was alarmed, and coming up to the _pah_. "All right, Mas' Don! I understand. It's follow my leader, and old `my pakeha' to lead." Ngati did not hesitate a moment, but went rapidly down the steep descent, straight for the river, apparently right for where some of the yelling tribe were advancing. All at once the New Zealand chief stopped short, turned quickly, and pressed his hands firmly on Don's shoulder; for voices were heard just in front, and so near, that the lad feared that they must be seen. But he grasped the chief's idea, and lay flat down, Jem following his example; and almost as they crouched to the ground, a group of the enemy ran up so close, that one of them caught his foot against Jem, and fell headlong. Fortunately Jem was too much startled to move, and, muttering angrily, the man sprang up, not--as Don expected--to let drive with a spear at his companion, but attributing his fall to some stone, or the trunk of a tree, he ran on after his companions. Then Ngati rose, uttered a few words, whose import they grasped, and	wet face. "I've found the post, Mas' Don!" he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come,"<\|quote\|>whispered Don.</\|quote\|>"Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await	Don Lavington
said Cecil.	No speaker	profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of	Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an	It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't	over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have	Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said	was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?" "I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one	clear and gentle; after it--as the horrid phrase went--she had been exactly the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock; at his words she had turned and stood between him and the light with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her unashamed, feeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things that really mattered were unshaken. So now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled the step; he must write her a long account. Glancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy's chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw "Dear Mrs. Vyse," followed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his knee. Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs. Maple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch's letter. He did not want to read that letter--his temptations never lay in that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy--" "He is only a boy," he reflected. "I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?" The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?" "I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad." Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall." "It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones. Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the	fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy--" "He is only a boy," he reflected. "I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?" The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil.</\|quote\|>"It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs."	A Room With A View
rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;	No speaker	"so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home	ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a	before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its	a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said	the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that	no sediment!" Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go. "You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "It blows, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, "enough to cut one's ears off." The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled. Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was	never," said Mr. Bumble, "see anything like the pitch it's got to. The day afore yesterday, a man you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it to you a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. My heart!' says the ungrateful villain, what's the use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!' Very good,' says our overseer, taking 'em away again, you won't get anything else here.' Then I'll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. Oh no, you won't,' says our overseer." "Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?" interposed the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?" "Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!" "It beats anything I could have believed," observed the matron emphatically. "But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come." "Mrs. Corney," said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information, "out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then they get tired of coming." "Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Corney. "Well, that is a good one, too!" "Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am," returned Mr. Bumble, "that's the great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however," said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, "these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!" Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go. "You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble," said the matron. "It blows, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, "enough to cut one's ears off." The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled. Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped. Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea. "Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matron's face; "are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" "Dear me!" exclaimed the matron, "what a very curious question from a single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?" The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron. "Mr. Bumble!" cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so great, that she had quite lost her voice, "Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!" Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round the matron's waist. As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded who was there. It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity. "If you please, mistress," said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly: putting her head in at the door, "Old Sally is a-going fast." "Well, what's that to me?" angrily demanded the matron. "I can't keep her alive, can I?" "No, no, mistress," replied the old woman, "nobody can; she's far beyond the reach of help. I've seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; and I know when death's a-coming, well enough. But she's troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her, and that's not often, for she is dying very hard, she says she has got something to tell, which you must	up his coat-collar, "enough to cut one's ears off." The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea? Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled. Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed louder this time than he had coughed yet. "Sweet? Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin. "Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment. The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department. "You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I declare!" "I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. "They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me." "Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; "so very domestic." "Oh, yes!"<\|quote\|>rejoined the matron with enthusiasm;</\|quote\|>"so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure." "Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney. "It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure." "Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides." "Hard-hearted, ma'am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped. Now, if the matron had moved her	Oliver Twist
said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.	No speaker	the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in,"	heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the	together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such	from anybody. It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished. Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off.	"He" (none of them called the murderer by his old name) "He can't have made away with himself. What do you think?" said Chitling. Toby shook his head. "If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he's got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so easy." This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody. It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished. Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes. He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall as close as it would go and ground it against it and sat down. Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it	and the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes's dog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be seen. "What's the meaning of this?" said Toby when they had returned. "He can't be coming here. I I hope not." "If he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog," said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. "Here! Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint." "He's drunk it all up, every drop," said Chitling after watching the dog some time in silence. "Covered with mud lame half blind he must have come a long way." "Where can he have come from!" exclaimed Toby. "He's been to the other kens of course, and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he's been many a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!" "He" (none of them called the murderer by his old name) "He can't have made away with himself. What do you think?" said Chitling. Toby shook his head. "If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he's got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so easy." This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody. It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished. Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes. He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall as close as it would go and ground it against it and sat down. Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to have heard its tones before. "How came that dog here?" he asked. "Alone. Three hours ago." "To-night's paper says that Fagin's took. Is it true, or a lie?" "True." They were silent again. "Damn you all!" said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. "Have you nothing to say to me?" There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke. "You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, "do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?" "You may stop here, if you think it safe," returned the person addressed, after some hesitation. Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it: and said, "Is it the body is it buried?" They shook their heads. "Why isn't it!" he retorted with the same glance behind him. "Wot do they keep such ugly things above the ground for? Who's that knocking?" Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there was nothing to fear;	this afternoon. Charley and I made our lucky up the wash-us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, head downwards; but his legs were so precious long that they stuck out at the top, and so they took him too." "And Bet?" "Poor Bet! She went to see the Body, to speak to who it was," replied Chitling, his countenance falling more and more, "and went off mad, screaming and raving, and beating her head against the boards; so they put a strait-weskut on her and took her to the hospital and there she is." "Wot's come of young Bates?" demanded Kags. "He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he'll be here soon," replied Chitling. "There's nowhere else to go to now, for the people at the Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the ken I went up there and see it with my own eyes is filled with traps." "This is a smash," observed Toby, biting his lips. "There's more than one will go with this." "The sessions are on," said Kags: "if they get the inquest over, and Bolter turns King's evidence: as of course he will, from what he's said already: they can prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, and get the trial on on Friday, and he'll swing in six days from this, by G !" "You should have heard the people groan," said Chitling; "the officers fought like devils, or they'd have torn him away. He was down once, but they made a ring round him, and fought their way along. You should have seen how he looked about him, all muddy and bleeding, and clung to them as if they were his dearest friends. I can see 'em now, not able to stand upright with the pressing of the mob, and draggin him along amongst 'em; I can see the people jumping up, one behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at him; I can see the blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries with which the women worked themselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore they'd tear his heart out!" The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears, and with his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro, like one distracted. While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes's dog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be seen. "What's the meaning of this?" said Toby when they had returned. "He can't be coming here. I I hope not." "If he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog," said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. "Here! Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint." "He's drunk it all up, every drop," said Chitling after watching the dog some time in silence. "Covered with mud lame half blind he must have come a long way." "Where can he have come from!" exclaimed Toby. "He's been to the other kens of course, and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he's been many a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!" "He" (none of them called the murderer by his old name) "He can't have made away with himself. What do you think?" said Chitling. Toby shook his head. "If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he's got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so easy." This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody. It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished. Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes. He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall as close as it would go and ground it against it and sat down. Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to have heard its tones before. "How came that dog here?" he asked. "Alone. Three hours ago." "To-night's paper says that Fagin's took. Is it true, or a lie?" "True." They were silent again. "Damn you all!" said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. "Have you nothing to say to me?" There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke. "You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, "do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?" "You may stop here, if you think it safe," returned the person addressed, after some hesitation. Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it: and said, "Is it the body is it buried?" They shook their heads. "Why isn't it!" he retorted with the same glance behind him. "Wot do they keep such ugly things above the ground for? Who's that knocking?" Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there was nothing to fear; and directly came back with Charley Bates behind him. Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the boy entered the room he encountered his figure. "Toby," said the boy falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes towards him, "why didn't you tell me this, downstairs?" There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the three, that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly he nodded, and made as though he would shake hands with him. "Let me go into some other room," said the boy, retreating still farther. "Charley!" said Sikes, stepping forward. "Don't you don't you know me?" "Don't come nearer me," answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer's face. "You monster!" The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes's eyes sunk gradually to the ground. "Witness you three," cried the boy shaking his clenched fist, and becoming more and more excited as he spoke. "Witness you three I'm not afraid of him if they come here after him, I'll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once. He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here I'll give him up. I'd give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there's the pluck of a man among you three, you'll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!" Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him heavily to the ground. The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer's breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his might. The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps endless they seemed in number crossing the nearest wooden bridge.	one behind another, and snarling with their teeth and making at him; I can see the blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries with which the women worked themselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore they'd tear his heart out!" The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears, and with his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro, like one distracted. While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes's dog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be seen. "What's the meaning of this?" said Toby when they had returned. "He can't be coming here. I I hope not." "If he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog," said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. "Here! Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint." "He's drunk it all up, every drop," said Chitling after watching the dog some time in silence. "Covered with mud lame half blind he must have come a long way." "Where can he have come from!" exclaimed Toby. "He's been to the other kens of course, and finding them filled with strangers come on here, where he's been many a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!" "He" (none of them called the murderer by his old name) "He can't have made away with himself. What do you think?" said Chitling. Toby shook his head. "If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he's got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so easy." This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody. It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had made a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their own position. They drew their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room. They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at the door below. "Young Bates,"<\|quote\|>said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt himself. The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that. Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.</\|quote\|>"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. "Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man in a hoarse voice. "None. He _must_ come in." "Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated before he had finished. Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes. He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall as close as it would go and ground it against it and sat down. Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never to have heard its tones before. "How came that dog here?" he asked. "Alone. Three hours ago." "To-night's paper says that Fagin's took. Is it true, or a lie?" "True." They were silent again. "Damn you all!" said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. "Have you nothing to say to me?" There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke. "You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, "do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?" "You may stop here, if you think it safe," returned the person addressed, after some hesitation. Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it: and said, "Is it the body is it buried?" They shook their heads. "Why isn't it!" he	Oliver Twist
"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."	Basil Hallward	the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I	asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I	and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous	at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a	you are not in the least like him." "You don t understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke s we tell each other the most absurd stories with	if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him." "You don t understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke s we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose." "Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and	comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake. "It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place." "I don t think I shall send it anywhere," he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. "No, I won t send it anywhere." Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion." "I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can t exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it." Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed. "Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same." "Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn t know you were so vain; and I really can t see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him." "You don t understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke s we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose." "Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago." "What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "You know quite well." "I do not, Harry." "Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you won t exhibit Dorian Gray s picture. I want the real reason." "I told you the real reason." "No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. Now, that is childish." "Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul." Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. "I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter; "and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly believe it." Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward s heart beating, and wondered what was coming. "The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon s. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not	away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion." "I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can t exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it." Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed. "Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same." "Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn t know you were so vain; and I really can t see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him." "You don t understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.<\|quote\|>"Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you."</\|quote\|>"But why not?" "Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?" "Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke s we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."	Nance	throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr.	"It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice.	seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the	nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what	Sikes. "Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?" "I hear you," replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. "What fancy have you got in your head now?" "Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. "All the better for you, you have." "Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill," said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "No!" cried Mr. Sikes. "Why not?" "Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room,	hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes's question. "Not long gone seven," said the girl. "How do you feel to-night, Bill?" "As weak as water," replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. "Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow." Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her. "Whining are you?" said Sikes. "Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?" "I hear you," replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. "What fancy have you got in your head now?" "Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. "All the better for you, you have." "Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill," said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "No!" cried Mr. Sikes. "Why not?" "Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley," said Mr. Dawkins; "and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the	sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without, and the rushing of the water. They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light step for a gentleman of his figure: looking nervously about him for hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was softly unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet and darkness outside. They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he returned to the chamber he had just quitted. CHAPTER XXXIX. INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in the last chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as therein narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth an inquiry what time of night it was. The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his old quarters: being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very limited size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman's having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration. The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes's question. "Not long gone seven," said the girl. "How do you feel to-night, Bill?" "As weak as water," replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. "Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow." Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her. "Whining are you?" said Sikes. "Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?" "I hear you," replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. "What fancy have you got in your head now?" "Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. "All the better for you, you have." "Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill," said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "No!" cried Mr. Sikes. "Why not?" "Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley," said Mr. Dawkins; "and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness, oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!" Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation. "Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, Bill; you'll do now." "Do!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?" "Only hear him, boys!" said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things." "The things is well enough in their way," observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; "but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog. Drive him down, Charley!" "I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd make his fortun' on	of night it was. The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation as his old quarters: being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very limited size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman's having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration. The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes's question. "Not long gone seven," said the girl. "How do you feel to-night, Bill?" "As weak as water," replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. "Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow." Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her. "Whining are you?" said Sikes. "Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?" "I hear you," replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. "What fancy have you got in your head now?" "Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. "All the better for you, you have." "Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill," said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "No!" cried Mr. Sikes. "Why not?" "Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair.<\|quote\|>"Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."</\|quote\|>"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley," said Mr. Dawkins; "and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the	Oliver Twist
Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.	No speaker	Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when	a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I	thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front	says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles "like a lobster." "I hope," said Mr. Henfrey, "that it s no intrusion." "None whatever," said the stranger. "Though, I understand," he said turning to Mrs. Hall, "that this room is really to be mine for my own private use." "I thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said.	hold the serviette before. The shadows, she fancied, had tricked her. "Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?" she said, recovering from the momentary shock. "Look at the clock?" he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and speaking over his hand, and then, getting more fully awake, "certainly." Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself. Then came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by this bandaged person. He was, he says, "taken aback." "Good afternoon," said the stranger, regarding him as Mr. Henfrey says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles "like a lobster." "I hope," said Mr. Henfrey, "that it s no intrusion." "None whatever," said the stranger. "Though, I understand," he said turning to Mrs. Hall, "that this room is really to be mine for my own private use." "I thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said. She was certain, with a marked coldness. "I should explain," he added, "what I was really too cold and fatigued to do before, that I am an experimental investigator." "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Hall, much impressed. "And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances." "Very useful things indeed they are, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And I m very naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries." "Of course, sir." "My reason for coming to Iping," he proceeded, with a certain deliberation of manner, "was ... a desire for solitude. I do not wish to be disturbed in my work. In addition	door and rapped and entered. Her visitor, she saw as she opened the door, was seated in the armchair before the fire, dozing it would seem, with his bandaged head drooping on one side. The only light in the room was the red glow from the fire which lit his eyes like adverse railway signals, but left his downcast face in darkness and the scanty vestiges of the day that came in through the open door. Everything was ruddy, shadowy, and indistinct to her, the more so since she had just been lighting the bar lamp, and her eyes were dazzled. But for a second it seemed to her that the man she looked at had an enormous mouth wide open a vast and incredible mouth that swallowed the whole of the lower portion of his face. It was the sensation of a moment: the white-bound head, the monstrous goggle eyes, and this huge yawn below it. Then he stirred, started up in his chair, put up his hand. She opened the door wide, so that the room was lighter, and she saw him more clearly, with the muffler held up to his face just as she had seen him hold the serviette before. The shadows, she fancied, had tricked her. "Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?" she said, recovering from the momentary shock. "Look at the clock?" he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and speaking over his hand, and then, getting more fully awake, "certainly." Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself. Then came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by this bandaged person. He was, he says, "taken aback." "Good afternoon," said the stranger, regarding him as Mr. Henfrey says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles "like a lobster." "I hope," said Mr. Henfrey, "that it s no intrusion." "None whatever," said the stranger. "Though, I understand," he said turning to Mrs. Hall, "that this room is really to be mine for my own private use." "I thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said. She was certain, with a marked coldness. "I should explain," he added, "what I was really too cold and fatigued to do before, that I am an experimental investigator." "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Hall, much impressed. "And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances." "Very useful things indeed they are, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And I m very naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries." "Of course, sir." "My reason for coming to Iping," he proceeded, with a certain deliberation of manner, "was ... a desire for solitude. I do not wish to be disturbed in my work. In addition to my work, an accident" "I thought as much," said Mrs. Hall to herself. "necessitates a certain retirement. My eyes are sometimes so weak and painful that I have to shut myself up in the dark for hours together. Lock myself up. Sometimes now and then. Not at present, certainly. At such times the slightest disturbance, the entry of a stranger into the room, is a source of excruciating annoyance to me it is well these things should be understood." "Certainly, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And if I might make so bold as to ask" "That I think, is all," said the stranger, with that quietly irresistible air of finality he could assume at will. Mrs. Hall reserved her question and sympathy for a better occasion. After Mrs. Hall had left the room, he remained standing in front of the fire, glaring, so Mr. Henfrey puts it, at the clock-mending. Mr. Henfrey not only took off the hands of the clock, and the face, but extracted the works; and he tried to work in as slow and quiet and unassuming a manner as possible. He worked with the lamp close to him, and the green shade threw a brilliant light	kill in his mouth. "_Was_ he?" he said. "He was, sir. And no laughing matter to them as had the doing for him, as I had my sister being took up with her little ones so much. There was bandages to do, sir, and bandages to undo. So that if I may make so bold as to say it, sir" "Will you get me some matches?" said the visitor, quite abruptly. "My pipe is out." Mrs. Hall was pulled up suddenly. It was certainly rude of him, after telling him all she had done. She gasped at him for a moment, and remembered the two sovereigns. She went for the matches. "Thanks," he said concisely, as she put them down, and turned his shoulder upon her and stared out of the window again. It was altogether too discouraging. Evidently he was sensitive on the topic of operations and bandages. She did not "make so bold as to say," however, after all. But his snubbing way had irritated her, and Millie had a hot time of it that afternoon. The visitor remained in the parlour until four o clock, without giving the ghost of an excuse for an intrusion. For the most part he was quite still during that time; it would seem he sat in the growing darkness smoking in the firelight perhaps dozing. Once or twice a curious listener might have heard him at the coals, and for the space of five minutes he was audible pacing the room. He seemed to be talking to himself. Then the armchair creaked as he sat down again. CHAPTER II. MR. TEDDY HENFREY S FIRST IMPRESSIONS At four o clock, when it was fairly dark and Mrs. Hall was screwing up her courage to go in and ask her visitor if he would take some tea, Teddy Henfrey, the clock-jobber, came into the bar. "My sakes! Mrs. Hall," said he, "but this is terrible weather for thin boots!" The snow outside was falling faster. Mrs. Hall agreed, and then noticed he had his bag with him. "Now you re here, Mr. Teddy," said she, "I d be glad if you d give th old clock in the parlour a bit of a look. Tis going, and it strikes well and hearty; but the hour-hand won t do nuthin but point at six." And leading the way, she went across to the parlour door and rapped and entered. Her visitor, she saw as she opened the door, was seated in the armchair before the fire, dozing it would seem, with his bandaged head drooping on one side. The only light in the room was the red glow from the fire which lit his eyes like adverse railway signals, but left his downcast face in darkness and the scanty vestiges of the day that came in through the open door. Everything was ruddy, shadowy, and indistinct to her, the more so since she had just been lighting the bar lamp, and her eyes were dazzled. But for a second it seemed to her that the man she looked at had an enormous mouth wide open a vast and incredible mouth that swallowed the whole of the lower portion of his face. It was the sensation of a moment: the white-bound head, the monstrous goggle eyes, and this huge yawn below it. Then he stirred, started up in his chair, put up his hand. She opened the door wide, so that the room was lighter, and she saw him more clearly, with the muffler held up to his face just as she had seen him hold the serviette before. The shadows, she fancied, had tricked her. "Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?" she said, recovering from the momentary shock. "Look at the clock?" he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and speaking over his hand, and then, getting more fully awake, "certainly." Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself. Then came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by this bandaged person. He was, he says, "taken aback." "Good afternoon," said the stranger, regarding him as Mr. Henfrey says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles "like a lobster." "I hope," said Mr. Henfrey, "that it s no intrusion." "None whatever," said the stranger. "Though, I understand," he said turning to Mrs. Hall, "that this room is really to be mine for my own private use." "I thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said. She was certain, with a marked coldness. "I should explain," he added, "what I was really too cold and fatigued to do before, that I am an experimental investigator." "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Hall, much impressed. "And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances." "Very useful things indeed they are, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And I m very naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries." "Of course, sir." "My reason for coming to Iping," he proceeded, with a certain deliberation of manner, "was ... a desire for solitude. I do not wish to be disturbed in my work. In addition to my work, an accident" "I thought as much," said Mrs. Hall to herself. "necessitates a certain retirement. My eyes are sometimes so weak and painful that I have to shut myself up in the dark for hours together. Lock myself up. Sometimes now and then. Not at present, certainly. At such times the slightest disturbance, the entry of a stranger into the room, is a source of excruciating annoyance to me it is well these things should be understood." "Certainly, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And if I might make so bold as to ask" "That I think, is all," said the stranger, with that quietly irresistible air of finality he could assume at will. Mrs. Hall reserved her question and sympathy for a better occasion. After Mrs. Hall had left the room, he remained standing in front of the fire, glaring, so Mr. Henfrey puts it, at the clock-mending. Mr. Henfrey not only took off the hands of the clock, and the face, but extracted the works; and he tried to work in as slow and quiet and unassuming a manner as possible. He worked with the lamp close to him, and the green shade threw a brilliant light upon his hands, and upon the frame and wheels, and left the rest of the room shadowy. When he looked up, coloured patches swam in his eyes. Being constitutionally of a curious nature, he had removed the works a quite unnecessary proceeding with the idea of delaying his departure and perhaps falling into conversation with the stranger. But the stranger stood there, perfectly silent and still. So still, it got on Henfrey s nerves. He felt alone in the room and looked up, and there, grey and dim, was the bandaged head and huge blue lenses staring fixedly, with a mist of green spots drifting in front of them. It was so uncanny to Henfrey that for a minute they remained staring blankly at one another. Then Henfrey looked down again. Very uncomfortable position! One would like to say something. Should he remark that the weather was very cold for the time of year? He looked up as if to take aim with that introductory shot. "The weather" he began. "Why don t you finish and go?" said the rigid figure, evidently in a state of painfully suppressed rage. "All you ve got to do is to fix the hour-hand on its axle. You re simply humbugging" "Certainly, sir one minute more. I overlooked" and Mr. Henfrey finished and went. But he went feeling excessively annoyed. "Damn it!" said Mr. Henfrey to himself, trudging down the village through the thawing snow; "a man must do a clock at times, surely." And again, "Can t a man look at you? Ugly!" And yet again, "Seemingly not. If the police was wanting you you couldn t be more wropped and bandaged." At Gleeson s corner he saw Hall, who had recently married the stranger s hostess at the "Coach and Horses," and who now drove the Iping conveyance, when occasional people required it, to Sidderbridge Junction, coming towards him on his return from that place. Hall had evidently been "stopping a bit" at Sidderbridge, to judge by his driving. "Ow do, Teddy?" he said, passing. "You got a rum un up home!" said Teddy. Hall very sociably pulled up. "What s that?" he asked. "Rum-looking customer stopping at the Coach and Horses," said Teddy. "My sakes!" And he proceeded to give Hall a vivid description of his grotesque guest. "Looks a bit like a disguise, don t it? I d like to	noticed he had his bag with him. "Now you re here, Mr. Teddy," said she, "I d be glad if you d give th old clock in the parlour a bit of a look. Tis going, and it strikes well and hearty; but the hour-hand won t do nuthin but point at six." And leading the way, she went across to the parlour door and rapped and entered. Her visitor, she saw as she opened the door, was seated in the armchair before the fire, dozing it would seem, with his bandaged head drooping on one side. The only light in the room was the red glow from the fire which lit his eyes like adverse railway signals, but left his downcast face in darkness and the scanty vestiges of the day that came in through the open door. Everything was ruddy, shadowy, and indistinct to her, the more so since she had just been lighting the bar lamp, and her eyes were dazzled. But for a second it seemed to her that the man she looked at had an enormous mouth wide open a vast and incredible mouth that swallowed the whole of the lower portion of his face. It was the sensation of a moment: the white-bound head, the monstrous goggle eyes, and this huge yawn below it. Then he stirred, started up in his chair, put up his hand. She opened the door wide, so that the room was lighter, and she saw him more clearly, with the muffler held up to his face just as she had seen him hold the serviette before. The shadows, she fancied, had tricked her. "Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?" she said, recovering from the momentary shock. "Look at the clock?" he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and speaking over his hand, and then, getting more fully awake, "certainly." Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself. Then came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by this bandaged person. He was, he says, "taken aback." "Good afternoon," said the stranger, regarding him as Mr. Henfrey says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles "like a lobster." "I hope," said Mr. Henfrey, "that it s no intrusion." "None whatever," said the stranger. "Though, I understand," he said turning to Mrs. Hall, "that this room is really to be mine for my own private use." "I thought, sir," said Mrs. Hall, "you d prefer the clock" "Certainly," said the stranger, "certainly but, as a rule, I like to be alone and undisturbed." "But I m really glad to have the clock seen to," he said, seeing a certain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner. "Very glad."<\|quote\|>Mr. Henfrey had intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured him. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put his hands behind his back.</\|quote\|>"And presently," he said, "when the clock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock-mending is over." Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow. "You are certain that is the earliest?" he said. She was certain, with a marked coldness. "I should explain," he added, "what I was really too cold and fatigued to do before, that I am an experimental investigator." "Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Hall, much impressed. "And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances." "Very useful things indeed they are, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And I m very naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries." "Of course, sir." "My reason for coming to Iping," he proceeded, with a certain deliberation of manner, "was ... a desire for solitude. I do not wish to be disturbed in my work. In addition to my work, an accident" "I thought as much," said Mrs. Hall to herself. "necessitates a certain retirement. My eyes are sometimes so weak and painful that I have to shut myself up in the dark for hours together. Lock myself up. Sometimes now and then. Not at present, certainly. At such times the slightest disturbance, the entry of a stranger into the room, is a source of excruciating annoyance to me it is well these things should be understood." "Certainly, sir," said Mrs. Hall. "And if I might make so bold as to ask" "That I think, is all," said the stranger, with that quietly irresistible air of finality he could assume at will. Mrs. Hall reserved her question and sympathy for a better occasion. After Mrs. Hall had left the room, he remained standing in front of the fire, glaring, so Mr. Henfrey puts it, at the clock-mending. Mr. Henfrey not only took off the hands of the clock, and the face, but extracted the works; and he tried to work in as slow and quiet and unassuming a manner as possible. He worked with the lamp close to him, and the green shade threw a brilliant light upon his hands, and upon the frame and wheels, and left the rest of the room shadowy. When he looked	The Invisible Man
"Let me walk over with you,"	Robert Lebrun	I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said;	yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the	in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet	not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both." His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained her to him. "I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream.	you never came near me!" She was still caressing his cheek. "I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had been willing." She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips. "You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both." His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained her to him. "I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you will wait for me, Robert?" "Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me," he pleaded. "Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me." "I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here." She	it?" she asked. Her face glowed with soft lights. "Why? Because you were not free; you were L once Pontellier's wife. I couldn't help loving you if you were ten times his wife; but so long as I went away from you and kept away I could help telling you so." She put her free hand up to his shoulder, and then against his cheek, rubbing it softly. He kissed her again. His face was warm and flushed. "There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and longing for you." "But not writing to me," she interrupted. "Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my senses. I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming my wife." "Your wife!" "Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared." "Then you must have forgotten that I was L once Pontellier's wife." "Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men who had set their wives free, we have heard of such things." "Yes, we have heard of such things." "I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here" "When you got here you never came near me!" She was still caressing his cheek. "I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had been willing." She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips. "You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both." His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained her to him. "I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you will wait for me, Robert?" "Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me," he pleaded. "Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me." "I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here." She buried her face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice, together with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had deprived him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her. XXXVII Edna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up a mixture himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tiny glass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be a comfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle's sister, who had always been with her at such trying times, had not been able to come up from the plantation, and Ad le had been inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier so kindly promised to come to her. The nurse had been with them at night for the past week, as she lived a great distance away. And Dr. Mandelet had been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking for him any moment. Edna hastened upstairs by a private stairway that led from the rear of the store to the apartments above. The children were all sleeping in a back room. Madame Ratignolle was in the salon, whither she had strayed in her suffering	your chop; it's so biting and crisp. Then there's the advantage of being able to smoke with your coffee out here. Now, in the city aren't you going to smoke?" "After a while," he said, laying a cigar on the table. "Who gave it to you?" she laughed. "I bought it. I suppose I'm getting reckless; I bought a whole box." She was determined not to be personal again and make him uncomfortable. The cat made friends with him, and climbed into his lap when he smoked his cigar. He stroked her silky fur, and talked a little about her. He looked at Edna's book, which he had read; and he told her the end, to save her the trouble of wading through it, he said. Again he accompanied her back to her home; and it was after dusk when they reached the little "pigeon-house." She did not ask him to remain, which he was grateful for, as it permitted him to stay without the discomfort of blundering through an excuse which he had no intention of considering. He helped her to light the lamp; then she went into her room to take off her hat and to bathe her face and hands. When she came back Robert was not examining the pictures and magazines as before; he sat off in the shadow, leaning his head back on the chair as if in a reverie. Edna lingered a moment beside the table, arranging the books there. Then she went across the room to where he sat. She bent over the arm of his chair and called his name. "Robert," she said, "are you asleep?" "No," he answered, looking up at her. She leaned over and kissed him a soft, cool, delicate kiss, whose voluptuous sting penetrated his whole being then she moved away from him. He followed, and took her in his arms, just holding her close to him. She put her hand up to his face and pressed his cheek against her own. The action was full of love and tenderness. He sought her lips again. Then he drew her down upon the sofa beside him and held her hand in both of his. "Now you know," he said, "now you know what I have been fighting against since last summer at Grand Isle; what drove me away and drove me back again." "Why have you been fighting against it?" she asked. Her face glowed with soft lights. "Why? Because you were not free; you were L once Pontellier's wife. I couldn't help loving you if you were ten times his wife; but so long as I went away from you and kept away I could help telling you so." She put her free hand up to his shoulder, and then against his cheek, rubbing it softly. He kissed her again. His face was warm and flushed. "There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and longing for you." "But not writing to me," she interrupted. "Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my senses. I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming my wife." "Your wife!" "Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared." "Then you must have forgotten that I was L once Pontellier's wife." "Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men who had set their wives free, we have heard of such things." "Yes, we have heard of such things." "I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here" "When you got here you never came near me!" She was still caressing his cheek. "I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had been willing." She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips. "You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both." His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained her to him. "I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you will wait for me, Robert?" "Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me," he pleaded. "Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me." "I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here." She buried her face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice, together with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had deprived him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her. XXXVII Edna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up a mixture himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tiny glass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be a comfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle's sister, who had always been with her at such trying times, had not been able to come up from the plantation, and Ad le had been inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier so kindly promised to come to her. The nurse had been with them at night for the past week, as she lived a great distance away. And Dr. Mandelet had been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking for him any moment. Edna hastened upstairs by a private stairway that led from the rear of the store to the apartments above. The children were all sleeping in a back room. Madame Ratignolle was in the salon, whither she had strayed in her suffering impatience. She sat on the sofa, clad in an ample white _peignoir_, holding a handkerchief tight in her hand with a nervous clutch. Her face was drawn and pinched, her sweet blue eyes haggard and unnatural. All her beautiful hair had been drawn back and plaited. It lay in a long braid on the sofa pillow, coiled like a golden serpent. The nurse, a comfortable looking Griffe woman in white apron and cap, was urging her to return to her bedroom. "There is no use, there is no use," she said at once to Edna. "We must get rid of Mandelet; he is getting too old and careless. He said he would be here at half-past seven; now it must be eight. See what time it is, Jos phine." The woman was possessed of a cheerful nature, and refused to take any situation too seriously, especially a situation with which she was so familiar. She urged Madame to have courage and patience. But Madame only set her teeth hard into her under lip, and Edna saw the sweat gather in beads on her white forehead. After a moment or two she uttered a profound sigh and wiped her face with the handkerchief rolled in a ball. She appeared exhausted. The nurse gave her a fresh handkerchief, sprinkled with cologne water. "This is too much!" she cried. "Mandelet ought to be killed! Where is Alphonse? Is it possible I am to be abandoned like this neglected by every one?" "Neglected, indeed!" exclaimed the nurse. Wasn't she there? And here was Mrs. Pontellier leaving, no doubt, a pleasant evening at home to devote to her? And wasn't Monsieur Ratignolle coming that very instant through the hall? And Jos phine was quite sure she had heard Doctor Mandelet's coup . Yes, there it was, down at the door. Ad le consented to go back to her room. She sat on the edge of a little low couch next to her bed. Doctor Mandelet paid no attention to Madame Ratignolle's upbraidings. He was accustomed to them at such times, and was too well convinced of her loyalty to doubt it. He was glad to see Edna, and wanted her to go with him into the salon and entertain him. But Madame Ratignolle would not consent that Edna should leave her for an instant. Between agonizing moments, she chatted a little, and said it took	she interrupted. "Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my senses. I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming my wife." "Your wife!" "Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared." "Then you must have forgotten that I was L once Pontellier's wife." "Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men who had set their wives free, we have heard of such things." "Yes, we have heard of such things." "I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here" "When you got here you never came near me!" She was still caressing his cheek. "I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had been willing." She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, and the lips. "You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier's possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,' I should laugh at you both." His face grew a little white. "What do you mean?" he asked. There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame Ratignolle's servant had come around the back way with a message that Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. "Yes, yes," said Edna, rising; "I promised. Tell her yes to wait for me. I'll go back with her."<\|quote\|>"Let me walk over with you,"</\|quote\|>offered Robert. "No," she said; "I will go with the servant." She went into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. "Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by." He kissed her with a degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained her to him. "I love you," she whispered, "only you; no one but you. It was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you will wait for me, Robert?" "Don't go; don't go! Oh! Edna, stay with me," he pleaded. "Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me." "I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here." She buried her face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice, together with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had deprived him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her. XXXVII Edna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up a mixture himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tiny glass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be a comfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle's sister, who had always been with her at such trying times, had not been able to come up from the plantation, and Ad le had been inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier so kindly promised to come to her. The nurse had been with them at night for the past week, as she lived a great distance away. And Dr. Mandelet had been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking for him any moment. Edna hastened	The Awakening
I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.	No speaker	somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get	not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best	my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It	glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full	girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while	with the agility of a cat and barred my way. “Now, not a step do you go, my fine young blood, until you pick up every jolly lemon and put them away tidily, or I’ll tell the missus on you as sure as eggs.” It dawned on me that he had mistaken me for one of the servant-girls. That wasn’t bad fun. I determined not to undeceive but to have a lark with him. I summed him up as conceited, but not with the disgusting conceit with which some are afflicted, or perhaps blessed. It was rather an air of I-have-always-got-what-I-desire-and-believe,-if-people-fail-it-is-all- their-own -fault, which surrounded him. “If you please, sir,” I said humbly, “I’ve gathered them all up, will you let me go now.” “Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.” “Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!” “Go on, I won’t poison you. Come now, I’ll make you.” “Oh, the missus might catch me.” “No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.” “Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for I feared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: “Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland. I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs. “Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other. He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man—rich and important. I was a chit—an insignificant nonentity—yet, despite his sex, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus I laughed. I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he	boots with which to walk in the water, and was garbed in a most dilapidated old dress, which I had borrowed from one of the servants for the purpose. A pair of gloves made of basil, and a big hat, much torn in struggling through the undergrowth, completed my make-up. My hair was most unbecomingly screwed up, the short ends sticking out like a hurrah’s nest. It was late in the day when, returning from my ramble, I was met on the doorstep by aunt Helen. “While you are in that trim, I wish you would pluck some lemons for me. I’m sure there is no danger of you ruining your turn-out. A sketch of you would make a good item for the _Bulletin_,” she said. I went readily to do her bidding, and fetching a ladder with rungs about two feet six apart, placed it against a lemon-tree at the back of the house, and climbed up. Holding a number of lemons in my skirt, I was making a most ungraceful descent, when I heard an unknown footstep approaching towards my back. People came to Caddagat at all hours of the day, so I was not in the least disconcerted. Only a tramp, an agent, or a hawker, I bet, I thought, as I reached my big boot down for another rung of the ladder without turning my head to see whom it might be. A pair of strong brown hands encircled my waist, I was tossed up a foot or so and then deposited lightly on the ground, a masculine voice saying, “You’re a mighty well-shaped young filly—‘a waist rather small, but a quarter superb’.” “How dare anyone speak to me like that,” I thought, as I faced about to see who was parodying Gordon. There stood a man I had never before set eyes on, smiling mischievously at me. He was a young man—a very young man, a bushman tremendously tall and big and sunburnt, with an open pleasant face and chestnut moustache—not at all an awe-inspiring fellow, in spite of his unusual, though well-proportioned and carried, height. I knew it must be Harold Beecham, of Five-Bob Downs, as I had heard he stood six feet three and a half in his socks. I hurriedly let down my dress, the lemons rolling in a dozen directions, and turned to flee, but that well-formed figure bounded before me with the agility of a cat and barred my way. “Now, not a step do you go, my fine young blood, until you pick up every jolly lemon and put them away tidily, or I’ll tell the missus on you as sure as eggs.” It dawned on me that he had mistaken me for one of the servant-girls. That wasn’t bad fun. I determined not to undeceive but to have a lark with him. I summed him up as conceited, but not with the disgusting conceit with which some are afflicted, or perhaps blessed. It was rather an air of I-have-always-got-what-I-desire-and-believe,-if-people-fail-it-is-all- their-own -fault, which surrounded him. “If you please, sir,” I said humbly, “I’ve gathered them all up, will you let me go now.” “Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.” “Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!” “Go on, I won’t poison you. Come now, I’ll make you.” “Oh, the missus might catch me.” “No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.” “Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for I feared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: “Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland. I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs. “Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other. He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man—rich and important. I was a chit—an insignificant nonentity—yet, despite his sex, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus I laughed. I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above all things. He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying: “Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’ll like. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples you brought me!” He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he who did not know how to manage me, and not I that couldn’t manage him. “’Pon my honour, Miss Melvyn, I had no idea it was you, when I said—” Here he boggled completely, which had the effect of reviving my laughter. “You had no right to be dressed like that—deceiving a fellow. It wasn’t fair.” “That’s the best of it. It shows what a larrikin Don Juan sort of character you are. You can’t deceive me now if you pretend to be a virtuous well-behaved member of society.” “That is the first time I’ve ever meddled with any of the kitchen fry, and, by Jove, it will be the last!” he said energetically. “I’ve got myself into a pretty mess.” “What nonsense you talk,” I replied. “If you say another word about it, I’ll write a full account of it and paste it in my scrapbook. But if you don’t worry about it, neither will I. You said nothing very uncomplimentary; in fact, I was quite flattered.” I was perched on the high end of a couch, and he was leaning with big careless ease on the piano. Had grannie seen me, I would have been lectured about unladylike behaviour. “What is your uncle at today?” he inquired. “He’s not at anything. He went to Gool-Gool yesterday on the jury. Court finishes up today, and he is going to bring the judge home tonight. That’s why I am dressed so carefully,” I answered. “Good gracious! I never thought of court this time as I wasn’t called on the jury, and for a wonder hadn’t so much as a case against a Chinaman. I was going to stay tonight, but can’t if his worship is going to dine here.” “Why? You’re surely not afraid of Judge Fossilt? He’s a very simple old customer.” “Imagine dining with a judge in this toggery!” and he glanced down his great figure at his riding	will you let me go now.” “Yes, when you’ve given me a kiss.” “Oh, sir, I couldn’t do that!” “Go on, I won’t poison you. Come now, I’ll make you.” “Oh, the missus might catch me.” “No jolly fear; I’ll take all the blame if she does.” “Oh don’t, sir; let me go, please,” I said in such unfeigned distress, for I feared he was going to execute his threat, that he laughed and said: “Don’t be frightened, sissy, I never kiss girls, and I’m not going to start at this time of day, and against their will to boot. You haven’t been long here, have you? I haven’t seen you before. Stand out there till I see if you’ve got any grit in you, and then I am done with you.” I stood in the middle of the yard, the spot he indicated, while he uncurled his long heavy stock-whip with its big lash and scented myall handle. He cracked it round and round my head and arms, but I did not feel the least afraid, as I saw at a glance that he was exceedingly dexterous in the bushman’s art of handling a stock-whip, and knew, if I kept perfectly still, I was quite safe. It was thanks to uncle Jay-Jay that I was able to bear the operation with unruffled equanimity, as he was in the habit of testing my nerves in this way. “Well, I never! Not so much as blinked an eyelash! Thoroughbred!” He said after a minute or so, “Where’s the boss?” “In Gool-Gool. He won’t be home till late.” “Is Mrs Bossier in?” “No, she’s not, but Mrs Bell is somewhere around in front.” “Thanks.”<\|quote\|>I watched him as he walked away with an easy swinging stride, which spoke of many long, long days in the saddle. I felt certain as I watched him that he had quite forgotten the incident of the little girl with the lemons.</\|quote\|>“Sybylla, hurry up and get dressed. Put on your best bib and tucker, and I will leave Harry Beecham in your charge, as I want to superintend the making of some of the dishes myself this evening.” “It’s too early to put on my evening dress, isn’t it, auntie? “It is rather early; but you can’t spare time to change twice. Dress yourself completely; you don’t know what minute your uncle and his worship will arrive.” I had taken a dip in the creek, so had not to bathe, and it took me but a short time to don full war-paint—blue evening dress, satin slippers, and all. I wore my hair flowing, simply tied with a ribbon. I slipped out into the passage and called aunt Helen. She came. “I’m ready, auntie. Where is he?” “In the dining-room.” “Come into the drawing-room and call him. I will take charge of him till you are at leisure. But, auntie, it will be a long time till dinner—how on earth will I manage him?” “Manage him!” she laughed; “he is not at all an obstreperous character.” We had reached the drawing-room by this, and I looked at myself in the looking-glass while aunt Helen went to summon Harold Augustus Beecham, bachelor, owner of Five-Bob Downs, Wyambeet, Wallerawang West, Quat-Quatta, and a couple more stations in New South Wales, besides an extensive one in Queensland. I noticed as he entered the door that since I had seen him he had washed, combed his stiff black hair, and divested himself of his hat, spurs, and whip—his leggings had perforce to remain, as his nether garment was a pair of closely fitting grey cloth riding-breeches, which clearly defined the shapely contour of his lower limbs. “Harry, this is Sybylla. I’m sure you need no further introduction. Excuse me, I have something on the fire which is likely to burn.” And aunt Helen hurried off leaving us facing each other. He stared down at me with undisguised surprise. I looked up at him and laughed merrily. The fun was all on my side. He was a great big man—rich and important. I was a chit—an insignificant nonentity—yet, despite his sex, size, and importance, I was complete master of that situation, and knew it: thus I laughed. I saw that he recognized me again by the dusky red he flushed beneath his sun-darkened skin. No doubt he regretted having called me a filly above all things. He bowed stiffly, but I held out my hand, saying: “Do shake hands. When introduced I always shake hands with anyone I think I’ll like. Besides, I seem to know you well. Just think of all the apples you brought me!” He acceded to my request, holding my hand a deal longer than necessary, and looking at me helplessly. It amused me greatly, for I saw that it was he who did not know how to manage me, and not I that couldn’t manage him. “’Pon my honour, Miss Melvyn, I had no idea it was you, when I said—” Here he boggled completely, which	My Brilliant Career
“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”	Harold Beecham	spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we	eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that	until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will	to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly;	feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and	and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold—from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he was good in my sight, but lacking in that power over me which would make me desirous of being the mother of his children. As for explaining my feelings to him—ha! He would laughingly call them one of my funny little whims. With his orthodox, practical, plain, commonsense views of these things, he would not understand me. What was there to understand? Only that I was queer and different from other women. But he was waiting for me to speak. I had put my hand to the plough and could not turn back. I could not use the word wife, but I put my hand in his, looked at him steadily, and said— “Harold. I meant what I said last Sunday. If you want me—if I am of any use to you—I will marry	great desire, now that Five-Bob was no longer his, was to get as far away from old associations as possible. He had seen his aunts off, superintended the muster of all stock on the place, dismissed all the female and most of the male employees, and surrendered the reins of government, and as Harold Augustus Beecham, boss of Five-Bob, on Monday, the 21st of December 1896, was leaving the district for ever. On Sunday, the 20th of December, he came to bid us good-bye and to arrive at an understanding with me concerning what I had said to him the Sunday before. Grannie, strange to say, never suspected that there was likely to be anything between us. Harold was so undemonstrative, and had always come and gone as he liked at Caddagat: she overlooked the possibility of his being a lover, and in our intercourse allowed us almost the freedom of sister and brother or cousins. On this particular afternoon, after we had talked to grannie for a little while, knowing that he wished to interview me, I suggested that he should come up the orchard with me and get some gooseberries. Without demur from anybody we set off, and were scarcely out of hearing before Harold asked me had I really meant what I said. “Certainly,” I replied. “That is, if you really care for me, and think it wise to choose me of all my sex.” Ere he put it in words I read his answer in the clear brown eyes bent upon me. “Syb, you know what I feel and would like, but I think it would be mean of me to allow you to make such a sacrifice.” I knew I was not dealing with a booby, but with a sensible clear-sighted man, and so studied to express myself in a way which would not for an instant give him the impression that I was promising to marry him because—what I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much, but I said: “Hal, don’t you think it is a little selfish of you to want to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold—from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he was good in my sight, but lacking in that power over me which would make me desirous of being the mother of his children. As for explaining my feelings to him—ha! He would laughingly call them one of my funny little whims. With his orthodox, practical, plain, commonsense views of these things, he would not understand me. What was there to understand? Only that I was queer and different from other women. But he was waiting for me to speak. I had put my hand to the plough and could not turn back. I could not use the word wife, but I put my hand in his, looked at him steadily, and said— “Harold. I meant what I said last Sunday. If you want me—if I am of any use to you—I will marry you when I attain my majority.” He was satisfied. He bade us good-bye early that afternoon, as he intended departing from Five-Bob when the morrow was young, and had two or three little matters to attend to previous to his departure. I accompanied him a little way, he walking and leading his horse. We parted beneath the old willow-tree. “Good-bye, Harold. I mean all I have said.” I turned my face upwards; he stooped and kissed me once—only once—one light, gentle, diffident kiss. He looked at me long and intently without saying a word, then mounted his horse, raised his hat, and rode away. I watched him depart along the white dusty road, looking like a long snake in the glare of the summer sun, until it and he who travelled thereon disappeared among the messmate- and hickory-trees forming the horizon. I stood gazing at the hills in the distance on which the blue dreaming mists of evening were gathering, until tears stole down my cheeks. I was not given to weeping. What brought them? I hardly knew. It was not because Harold was leaving, though I would miss him much. Was it because I was disappointed in love? I persuaded myself that. I loved Harold as much as I could ever love anyone, and I could not forsake him now that he needed me. But, but, but, I did not want to marry, and I wished that Harold had asked anything of me but that, because—because, I don’t know what, and presently felt ashamed for being such a selfish coward that I grudged to make a little sacrifice of my own inclinations to help a brother through life. “I used to feel sure that Harry meant to come up to the scratch, but I suppose he’s had plenty to keep him going lately without bothering his head about a youngster in short frocks and a pigtail,” remarked uncle Jay-Jay that night. “Well, Sybylla, poor Harry has gone: we will all—even you included—miss him very much, I am sure. I used to think that he cared for you. It may be that he has not spoken to us on account of his financial failure, and it may be that I made a mistake,” said aunt Helen when she was bidding me good night. I held my peace. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Boast Not Thyself of Tomorrow We felt the loss of the	to throw me over just because you have lost your money? You are young, healthy, have good character and influential connections, and plenty of good practical ability and sense, so, surely, you will know no such thing as failure if you meet the world bravely. Go and be the man you are; and if you fail, when I am twenty-one I will marry you, and we will help each other. I am young and strong, and am used to hard work, so poverty will not alarm me in the least. If you want me, I want you. “Syb, you are such a perfect little brick that I couldn’t be such a beggarly cur as to let you do that. I knew you were as true as steel under your funny little whims and contrariness; and could you really love me now that I am poor?” I replied with vigour: “Do you think I am that sort, that cares for a person only because he has a little money? Why! that is the very thing I am always preaching against. If a man was a lord or a millionaire I would not have him if I loved him not, but I would marry a poor cripple if I loved him. It wasn’t because you owned Five-Bob Downs that I liked you, but because you have a big heart in which one would have room to get warm, and because you are true, and because you are kind and big and—” Here I could feel my voice getting shaky, and being afraid I would make a fool of myself by crying, I left off. “Syb, I will try and fix matters up a bit, and will claim you in that time if I have a home.” “Claim me, home or not, if you are so disposed, but I will make this condition. Do not tell anyone we are engaged, and remember you are perfectly free. If you see a woman you like more than me, promise me on your sacred word that you will have none of those idiotic unjust ideas of keeping true to me. Promise.” “Yes, I will promise,” he said easily, thinking then, no doubt, as many a one before him has thought, that he would never be called upon to fulfil his word. “I will promise in return that I will not look at another man in a matrimonial way until the four years are up, so you need not be jealous and worry yourself; for, Hal, you can trust me, can you not?” Taking my hand in his and looking at me with a world of love in his eyes, which moved me in spite of myself, he said:<\|quote\|>“I could trust you in every way to the end of the world.”</\|quote\|>“Thank you, Harold. What we have said is agreed upon—that is, of course, as things appear now: if anything turns up to disturb this arrangement it is not irrevocable in the least degree, and we can lay out more suitable plans. Four years will not be long, and I will be more sensible at the end of that time—that is, of course, if I ever have any sense. We will not write or have any communication, so you will be perfectly free if you see anyone you like better than me to go in and win. Do you agree?” “Certainly; any little thing like that you can settle according to your fancy. I’m set up as long as I get you one way or another, that’s all I want. It was a bit tough being cleared out from all the old ways, but if I have you to stand by me it will be a great start. Say what you said last Sunday, again. Syb, say you will be my wife.” I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked. But now the word wife finished me up. I was very fond of Harold—fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold—from the	My Brilliant Career
She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.	No speaker	how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as	I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide	Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the	him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding." "Oh, I see... well, that's that, isn't it?" "It certainly looks as though it were." Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition." "Yes," said Brenda, "I ought to have thought of that. Well, good-bye." And she went out alone into the sunshine. * * * * * All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious	frank, Lady Brenda, I fear that _was_ his intention. I raised this particular point shortly before his departure. He was quite resolved on the subject." "But is he _allowed_ to do that? I mean, haven't I got any rights under the marriage settlement or anything?" "Nothing which you can claim without application to the courts. You _might_ find solicitors who would advise you to take action. I cannot say that I should be one of them. Mr Last would oppose any such order to the utmost and I think that, in the present circumstances, the courts would undoubtedly find for him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding." "Oh, I see... well, that's that, isn't it?" "It certainly looks as though it were." Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition." "Yes," said Brenda, "I ought to have thought of that. Well, good-bye." And she went out alone into the sunshine. * * * * * All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious of the passage of time. He slept a little; once or twice he left his hammock and found himself weak and dizzy. He tried to eat some of the food which Dr Messinger had left out for him, but without success. It was not until it grew dark that he realized the day was over. He lit the lantern and began to collect wood for the fire, but the sticks kept slipping from his fingers and each time that he stooped he felt giddy, so that after a few fretful efforts he left them where they had fallen and returned	Amazon and the water closed over his bald head. * * * * * Brenda went to see the family solicitors. "Mr Graceful," she said, "I've got to have some more money." Mr Graceful looked at her sadly. "I should have thought that was really a question for your bank manager. I understand that your securities are in your own name and that the dividends are paid into your account." "They never seem to pay dividends nowadays. Besides, it's really very difficult to live on so little." "No doubt. No doubt." "Mr Last left you with power of attorney, didn't he?" "With strictly limited powers, Lady Brenda. I am instructed to pay the wage bill at Hetton and all expenses connected with the upkeep of the estate--he is putting in new bathrooms and restoring some decorations in the morning-room which had been demolished. But I am afraid that I have no authority to draw on Mr Last's account for other charges." "But, Mr Graceful, I am sure he didn't intend to stay abroad so long. He can't possibly have meant to leave me stranded like this, can he?... Can he?" Mr Graceful paused and fidgeted a little. "To be quite frank, Lady Brenda, I fear that _was_ his intention. I raised this particular point shortly before his departure. He was quite resolved on the subject." "But is he _allowed_ to do that? I mean, haven't I got any rights under the marriage settlement or anything?" "Nothing which you can claim without application to the courts. You _might_ find solicitors who would advise you to take action. I cannot say that I should be one of them. Mr Last would oppose any such order to the utmost and I think that, in the present circumstances, the courts would undoubtedly find for him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding." "Oh, I see... well, that's that, isn't it?" "It certainly looks as though it were." Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition." "Yes," said Brenda, "I ought to have thought of that. Well, good-bye." And she went out alone into the sunshine. * * * * * All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious of the passage of time. He slept a little; once or twice he left his hammock and found himself weak and dizzy. He tried to eat some of the food which Dr Messinger had left out for him, but without success. It was not until it grew dark that he realized the day was over. He lit the lantern and began to collect wood for the fire, but the sticks kept slipping from his fingers and each time that he stooped he felt giddy, so that after a few fretful efforts he left them where they had fallen and returned to his hammock. And lying there, wrapped in his blanket, he began to cry. After some hours of darkness the lamp began to burn low; he leant painfully over, and shook it. It needed refilling. He knew where the oil was kept, crept to it, supporting himself first on the hammock rope and then on a pile of boxes. He found the keg, pulled out the bung and began to refill the lamp, but his hand trembled and the oil spilled over the ground, then his head began to swim again so that he shut his eyes; the keg rolled over on its side and emptied itself with slow gurglings. When he realized what had happened, he began to cry again. He lay down in his hammock and in a few minutes the light sank, flickered and went out. There was a reek of kerosene on his hands and on the sodden earth. He lay awake in the darkness crying. Just before dawn the fever returned and a constant company of phantoms perplexed his senses. * * * * * Brenda awoke in the lowest possible spirits. The evening before she had spent alone at a cinema. Afterwards she felt	paddled on with regular, leisurely strokes; he was travelling fast. For a mile's stretch the river narrowed and the water raced so that all he had to do was to trail the blade of the paddle as a rudder; then the walls of forest on either side of him fell back and he drifted into a great open lake, where he had to work heavily to keep in motion; all the time he watched keenly to right and left for the column of smoke, the thatched dome, the sly brown figure in the undergrowth, the drinking cattle, that would disclose the village he sought. But there was no sign. In the open water he took up his field-glasses and studied the whole wooded margin. But there was no sign. Later the river narrowed once more and the canoe shot forward in the swift current. Ahead of him the surface was broken by rapids; the smooth water seethed and eddied; a low monotone warned him that beyond the rapids was a fall. Dr Messinger began to steer for the bank. The current was running strongly and he exerted his full strength; ten yards from the beginning of the rapids his bows ran in under the bank. There was a dense growth of thorn here, overhanging the river, the canoe slid under them and bit into the beach; very cautiously Dr Messinger knelt forward in his place and stretched up to a bough over his head. It was at that moment he came to grief; the stern swung out downstream and as he snatched at the paddle the craft was swept broadside into the troubled waters; there it adopted an eccentric course, spinning and tumbling to the falls. Dr Messinger was tipped into the water; it was quite shallow in places and he caught at the rocks but they were worn smooth as ivory and afforded no hold for his hands; he rolled over twice, found himself in deep water and attempted to swim, found himself among boulders again and attempted to grapple with them. Then he reached the falls. They were unspectacular as falls go in that country--a drop of ten feet or less--but they were enough for Dr Messinger. At their foot the foam subsided into a great pool, almost still, and strewn with blossom from the forest trees that encircled it. Dr Messinger's hat floated very slowly towards the Amazon and the water closed over his bald head. * * * * * Brenda went to see the family solicitors. "Mr Graceful," she said, "I've got to have some more money." Mr Graceful looked at her sadly. "I should have thought that was really a question for your bank manager. I understand that your securities are in your own name and that the dividends are paid into your account." "They never seem to pay dividends nowadays. Besides, it's really very difficult to live on so little." "No doubt. No doubt." "Mr Last left you with power of attorney, didn't he?" "With strictly limited powers, Lady Brenda. I am instructed to pay the wage bill at Hetton and all expenses connected with the upkeep of the estate--he is putting in new bathrooms and restoring some decorations in the morning-room which had been demolished. But I am afraid that I have no authority to draw on Mr Last's account for other charges." "But, Mr Graceful, I am sure he didn't intend to stay abroad so long. He can't possibly have meant to leave me stranded like this, can he?... Can he?" Mr Graceful paused and fidgeted a little. "To be quite frank, Lady Brenda, I fear that _was_ his intention. I raised this particular point shortly before his departure. He was quite resolved on the subject." "But is he _allowed_ to do that? I mean, haven't I got any rights under the marriage settlement or anything?" "Nothing which you can claim without application to the courts. You _might_ find solicitors who would advise you to take action. I cannot say that I should be one of them. Mr Last would oppose any such order to the utmost and I think that, in the present circumstances, the courts would undoubtedly find for him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding." "Oh, I see... well, that's that, isn't it?" "It certainly looks as though it were." Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition." "Yes," said Brenda, "I ought to have thought of that. Well, good-bye." And she went out alone into the sunshine. * * * * * All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious of the passage of time. He slept a little; once or twice he left his hammock and found himself weak and dizzy. He tried to eat some of the food which Dr Messinger had left out for him, but without success. It was not until it grew dark that he realized the day was over. He lit the lantern and began to collect wood for the fire, but the sticks kept slipping from his fingers and each time that he stooped he felt giddy, so that after a few fretful efforts he left them where they had fallen and returned to his hammock. And lying there, wrapped in his blanket, he began to cry. After some hours of darkness the lamp began to burn low; he leant painfully over, and shook it. It needed refilling. He knew where the oil was kept, crept to it, supporting himself first on the hammock rope and then on a pile of boxes. He found the keg, pulled out the bung and began to refill the lamp, but his hand trembled and the oil spilled over the ground, then his head began to swim again so that he shut his eyes; the keg rolled over on its side and emptied itself with slow gurglings. When he realized what had happened, he began to cry again. He lay down in his hammock and in a few minutes the light sank, flickered and went out. There was a reek of kerosene on his hands and on the sodden earth. He lay awake in the darkness crying. Just before dawn the fever returned and a constant company of phantoms perplexed his senses. * * * * * Brenda awoke in the lowest possible spirits. The evening before she had spent alone at a cinema. Afterwards she felt hungry--she had had no proper meal that day--but she had not the strength to go alone into any of the supper restaurants. She bought a meat pie at a coffee stall and took it home. It looked delicious but when she came to eat she found that she had lost her appetite. The remains of that pie lay on the dressing table when she awoke. It was August and she was entirely alone. Beaver was that day landing in New York. (He had cabled her from mid-ocean that the crossing was excellent.) It was for her the last of Beaver. Parliament was over and Jock Grant-Menzies was paying his annual visit to his elder brother in Scotland; Marjorie and Allan at the last moment had made Lord Monomark's yacht and were drifting luxuriously down the coast of Spain attending bull-fights (they had even asked her to look after Djinn). Her mother was at the chalet Lady Anchorage always lent her on the Lake of Geneva. Polly was everywhere. Even Jenny Abdul Akbar was cruising in the Baltic. Brenda opened her newspaper and read an article by a young man who said that the London Season was a thing of the past; that everyone was too busy in those days to keep up the pre-war routine; that there were no more formal dances but a constant round of more modest entertaining; that August in London was the gayest time of all (he rewrote this annually in slightly different words). It did not console Brenda to read that article. For weeks past she had attempted to keep a fair mind towards Tony and his treatment of her; now at last she broke down, and turning over buried her face in the pillow in an agony of resentment and self-pity. * * * * * In Brazil she wore a ragged cotton gown of the same pattern as Rosa's. It was not unbecoming. Tony watched her for some time before he spoke. "Why are you dressed like that?" "Don't you like it? I got it from Polly." "It looks so dirty." "Well, Polly travels about a lot. You must get up now to go to the County Council meeting." "But it isn't Wednesday?" "No, but time is different in Brazil; surely you remember?" "I can't get as far as Pigstanton. I've got to stay here until Messinger comes back. I'm ill. He told	almost still, and strewn with blossom from the forest trees that encircled it. Dr Messinger's hat floated very slowly towards the Amazon and the water closed over his bald head. * * * * * Brenda went to see the family solicitors. "Mr Graceful," she said, "I've got to have some more money." Mr Graceful looked at her sadly. "I should have thought that was really a question for your bank manager. I understand that your securities are in your own name and that the dividends are paid into your account." "They never seem to pay dividends nowadays. Besides, it's really very difficult to live on so little." "No doubt. No doubt." "Mr Last left you with power of attorney, didn't he?" "With strictly limited powers, Lady Brenda. I am instructed to pay the wage bill at Hetton and all expenses connected with the upkeep of the estate--he is putting in new bathrooms and restoring some decorations in the morning-room which had been demolished. But I am afraid that I have no authority to draw on Mr Last's account for other charges." "But, Mr Graceful, I am sure he didn't intend to stay abroad so long. He can't possibly have meant to leave me stranded like this, can he?... Can he?" Mr Graceful paused and fidgeted a little. "To be quite frank, Lady Brenda, I fear that _was_ his intention. I raised this particular point shortly before his departure. He was quite resolved on the subject." "But is he _allowed_ to do that? I mean, haven't I got any rights under the marriage settlement or anything?" "Nothing which you can claim without application to the courts. You _might_ find solicitors who would advise you to take action. I cannot say that I should be one of them. Mr Last would oppose any such order to the utmost and I think that, in the present circumstances, the courts would undoubtedly find for him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding." "Oh, I see... well, that's that, isn't it?" "It certainly looks as though it were." Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn. "There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr Last made another will?" "I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss." "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him."<\|quote\|>She still stood between the door and the table, looking lost, in her bright summer clothes.</\|quote\|>"Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs-presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition." "Yes," said Brenda, "I ought to have thought of that. Well, good-bye." And she went out alone into the sunshine. * * * * * All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious of the passage of time. He slept a little; once or twice he left his hammock and found himself weak and dizzy. He tried to eat some of the food which Dr Messinger had left out for him, but without success. It was not until it grew dark that he realized the day was over. He lit the lantern and began to collect wood for the fire, but the sticks kept slipping from his fingers and each time that he stooped he felt giddy, so that after a few fretful efforts he left them where they had fallen and returned to his hammock. And lying there, wrapped in his blanket, he began to cry. After some hours of darkness the lamp began to burn low; he leant painfully over, and shook it. It needed refilling. He knew where the oil was kept, crept to it, supporting himself first on the hammock rope and then on a pile of boxes. He found the keg, pulled out the bung and began to refill the lamp, but his hand trembled and the oil spilled over the ground, then his head began to swim again so that he shut his eyes; the keg rolled over on its side and emptied itself with slow gurglings. When he realized what had happened, he began to cry again. He lay down in his hammock and in a few minutes the light sank, flickered and went out. There was a reek of kerosene on his hands and on the sodden earth. He lay awake in the darkness crying. Just before dawn the fever returned and a constant company of phantoms perplexed his senses. * * * * * Brenda awoke in the lowest possible spirits. The evening before she had spent alone at a cinema. Afterwards she felt hungry--she had had no proper meal that day--but she had not the strength to go alone into any of the supper restaurants. She bought a meat pie at a coffee stall and took it home. It looked delicious but when she came to eat she found that she had lost her appetite. The remains of that pie lay on the dressing table when she awoke. It was August and she was entirely alone. Beaver was that day landing in New York. (He had cabled her from mid-ocean that the crossing was excellent.) It was for her the last of Beaver. Parliament was over and Jock Grant-Menzies was paying his annual visit to his elder brother in Scotland; Marjorie and Allan at the last moment had made Lord Monomark's yacht and were drifting luxuriously down the coast of Spain attending bull-fights (they had even asked her to look after Djinn). Her mother was at the chalet Lady Anchorage always lent her on the Lake of Geneva. Polly was everywhere. Even Jenny Abdul Akbar was cruising in the Baltic. Brenda opened her newspaper and read an article by a young man who said that the London	A Handful Of Dust
retorted Bounderby;	No speaker	tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say,	would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you	you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him	man tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there's an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I'll give _you_ to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be summed up in	said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him with his legs wide apart, his hands deeper in his pockets, and his hair like a hayfield wherein his windy anger was boisterous. "You have said your say; I am going to say mine. I am a Coketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. I know the bricks of this town, and I know the works of this town, and I know the chimneys of this town, and I know the smoke of this town, and I know the Hands of this town. I know 'em all pretty well. They're real. When a man tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there's an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I'll give _you_ to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be summed up in this that your daughter don't properly know her husband's merits, and is not impressed with such a sense as would become her, by George! of the honour of his alliance. That's plain speaking, I hope." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "this is unreasonable." "Is it?" said Bounderby. "I am glad to hear you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, with his new lights, tells me that what I say is unreasonable, I am convinced at once it must be devilish sensible. With your permission I am going on. You know my origin; and you know that for a good many years	it to develop itself by tenderness and consideration it it would be the better for the happiness of all of us. Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, shading his face with his hand, "has always been my favourite child." The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned and swelled to such an extent on hearing these words, that he seemed to be, and probably was, on the brink of a fit. With his very ears a bright purple shot with crimson, he pent up his indignation, however, and said: "You'd like to keep her here for a time?" "I I had intended to recommend, my dear Bounderby, that you should allow Louisa to remain here on a visit, and be attended by Sissy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), who understands her, and in whom she trusts." "I gather from all this, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, standing up with his hands in his pockets, "that you are of opinion that there's what people call some incompatibility between Loo Bounderby and myself." "I fear there is at present a general incompatibility between Louisa, and and and almost all the relations in which I have placed her," was her father's sorrowful reply. "Now, look you here, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him with his legs wide apart, his hands deeper in his pockets, and his hair like a hayfield wherein his windy anger was boisterous. "You have said your say; I am going to say mine. I am a Coketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. I know the bricks of this town, and I know the works of this town, and I know the chimneys of this town, and I know the smoke of this town, and I know the Hands of this town. I know 'em all pretty well. They're real. When a man tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there's an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I'll give _you_ to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be summed up in this that your daughter don't properly know her husband's merits, and is not impressed with such a sense as would become her, by George! of the honour of his alliance. That's plain speaking, I hope." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "this is unreasonable." "Is it?" said Bounderby. "I am glad to hear you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, with his new lights, tells me that what I say is unreasonable, I am convinced at once it must be devilish sensible. With your permission I am going on. You know my origin; and you know that for a good many years of my life I didn't want a shoeing-horn, in consequence of not having a shoe. Yet you may believe or not, as you think proper, that there are ladies born ladies belonging to families Families! who next to worship the ground I walk on." He discharged this like a Rocket, at his father-in-law's head. "Whereas your daughter," proceeded Bounderby, "is far from being a born lady. That you know, yourself. Not that I care a pinch of candle-snuff about such things, for you are very well aware I don't; but that such is the fact, and you, Tom Gradgrind, can't change it. Why do I say this?" "Not, I fear," observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a low voice, "to spare me." "Hear me out," said Bounderby, "and refrain from cutting in till your turn comes round. I say this, because highly connected females have been astonished to see the way in which your daughter has conducted herself, and to witness her insensibility. They have wondered how I have suffered it. And I wonder myself now, and I won't suffer it." "Bounderby," returned Mr. Gradgrind, rising, "the less we say to-night the better, I think." "On the contrary, Tom Gradgrind, the more	I should feel sensible of your delicacy, and grateful for it, if you would spare me these references to Harthouse. I shall not associate him in our conversation with your intimacy and encouragement; pray do not persist in connecting him with mine." "I never mentioned his name!" said Bounderby. "Well, well!" returned Mr. Gradgrind, with a patient, even a submissive, air. And he sat for a little while pondering. "Bounderby, I see reason to doubt whether we have ever quite understood Louisa." "Who do you mean by We?" "Let me say I, then," he returned, in answer to the coarsely blurted question; "I doubt whether I have understood Louisa. I doubt whether I have been quite right in the manner of her education." "There you hit it," returned Bounderby. "There I agree with you. You have found it out at last, have you? Education! I'll tell you what education is To be tumbled out of doors, neck and crop, and put upon the shortest allowance of everything except blows. That's what _I_ call education." "I think your good sense will perceive," Mr. Gradgrind remonstrated in all humility, "that whatever the merits of such a system may be, it would be difficult of general application to girls." "I don't see it at all, sir," returned the obstinate Bounderby. "Well," sighed Mr. Gradgrind, "we will not enter into the question. I assure you I have no desire to be controversial. I seek to repair what is amiss, if I possibly can; and I hope you will assist me in a good spirit, Bounderby, for I have been very much distressed." "I don't understand you, yet," said Bounderby, with determined obstinacy, "and therefore I won't make any promises." "In the course of a few hours, my dear Bounderby," Mr. Gradgrind proceeded, in the same depressed and propitiatory manner, "I appear to myself to have become better informed as to Louisa's character, than in previous years. The enlightenment has been painfully forced upon me, and the discovery is not mine. I think there are Bounderby, you will be surprised to hear me say this I think there are qualities in Louisa, which which have been harshly neglected, and and a little perverted. And and I would suggest to you, that that if you would kindly meet me in a timely endeavour to leave her to her better nature for a while and to encourage it to develop itself by tenderness and consideration it it would be the better for the happiness of all of us. Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, shading his face with his hand, "has always been my favourite child." The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned and swelled to such an extent on hearing these words, that he seemed to be, and probably was, on the brink of a fit. With his very ears a bright purple shot with crimson, he pent up his indignation, however, and said: "You'd like to keep her here for a time?" "I I had intended to recommend, my dear Bounderby, that you should allow Louisa to remain here on a visit, and be attended by Sissy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), who understands her, and in whom she trusts." "I gather from all this, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, standing up with his hands in his pockets, "that you are of opinion that there's what people call some incompatibility between Loo Bounderby and myself." "I fear there is at present a general incompatibility between Louisa, and and and almost all the relations in which I have placed her," was her father's sorrowful reply. "Now, look you here, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him with his legs wide apart, his hands deeper in his pockets, and his hair like a hayfield wherein his windy anger was boisterous. "You have said your say; I am going to say mine. I am a Coketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. I know the bricks of this town, and I know the works of this town, and I know the chimneys of this town, and I know the smoke of this town, and I know the Hands of this town. I know 'em all pretty well. They're real. When a man tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there's an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I'll give _you_ to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be summed up in this that your daughter don't properly know her husband's merits, and is not impressed with such a sense as would become her, by George! of the honour of his alliance. That's plain speaking, I hope." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "this is unreasonable." "Is it?" said Bounderby. "I am glad to hear you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, with his new lights, tells me that what I say is unreasonable, I am convinced at once it must be devilish sensible. With your permission I am going on. You know my origin; and you know that for a good many years of my life I didn't want a shoeing-horn, in consequence of not having a shoe. Yet you may believe or not, as you think proper, that there are ladies born ladies belonging to families Families! who next to worship the ground I walk on." He discharged this like a Rocket, at his father-in-law's head. "Whereas your daughter," proceeded Bounderby, "is far from being a born lady. That you know, yourself. Not that I care a pinch of candle-snuff about such things, for you are very well aware I don't; but that such is the fact, and you, Tom Gradgrind, can't change it. Why do I say this?" "Not, I fear," observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a low voice, "to spare me." "Hear me out," said Bounderby, "and refrain from cutting in till your turn comes round. I say this, because highly connected females have been astonished to see the way in which your daughter has conducted herself, and to witness her insensibility. They have wondered how I have suffered it. And I wonder myself now, and I won't suffer it." "Bounderby," returned Mr. Gradgrind, rising, "the less we say to-night the better, I think." "On the contrary, Tom Gradgrind, the more we say to-night, the better, I think. That is," the consideration checked him, "till I have said all I mean to say, and then I don't care how soon we stop. I come to a question that may shorten the business. What do you mean by the proposal you made just now?" "What do I mean, Bounderby?" "By your visiting proposition," said Bounderby, with an inflexible jerk of the hayfield. "I mean that I hope you may be induced to arrange in a friendly manner, for allowing Louisa a period of repose and reflection here, which may tend to a gradual alteration for the better in many respects." "To a softening down of your ideas of the incompatibility?" said Bounderby. "If you put it in those terms." "What made you think of this?" said Bounderby. "I have already said, I fear Louisa has not been understood. Is it asking too much, Bounderby, that you, so far her elder, should aid in trying to set her right? You have accepted a great charge of her; for better for worse, for" Mr. Bounderby may have been annoyed by the repetition of his own words to Stephen Blackpool, but he cut the quotation short with an angry start. "Come!" said he, "I don't want to be told about that. I know what I took her for, as well as you do. Never you mind what I took her for; that's my look out." "I was merely going on to remark, Bounderby, that we may all be more or less in the wrong, not even excepting you; and that some yielding on your part, remembering the trust you have accepted, may not only be an act of true kindness, but perhaps a debt incurred towards Louisa." "I think differently," blustered Bounderby. "I am going to finish this business according to my own opinions. Now, I don't want to make a quarrel of it with you, Tom Gradgrind. To tell you the truth, I don't think it would be worthy of my reputation to quarrel on such a subject. As to your gentleman-friend, he may take himself off, wherever he likes best. If he falls in my way, I shall tell him my mind; if he don't fall in my way, I shan't, for it won't be worth my while to do it. As to your daughter, whom I made Loo Bounderby, and might have	to you, that that if you would kindly meet me in a timely endeavour to leave her to her better nature for a while and to encourage it to develop itself by tenderness and consideration it it would be the better for the happiness of all of us. Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, shading his face with his hand, "has always been my favourite child." The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned and swelled to such an extent on hearing these words, that he seemed to be, and probably was, on the brink of a fit. With his very ears a bright purple shot with crimson, he pent up his indignation, however, and said: "You'd like to keep her here for a time?" "I I had intended to recommend, my dear Bounderby, that you should allow Louisa to remain here on a visit, and be attended by Sissy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), who understands her, and in whom she trusts." "I gather from all this, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, standing up with his hands in his pockets, "that you are of opinion that there's what people call some incompatibility between Loo Bounderby and myself." "I fear there is at present a general incompatibility between Louisa, and and and almost all the relations in which I have placed her," was her father's sorrowful reply. "Now, look you here, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him with his legs wide apart, his hands deeper in his pockets, and his hair like a hayfield wherein his windy anger was boisterous. "You have said your say; I am going to say mine. I am a Coketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. I know the bricks of this town, and I know the works of this town, and I know the chimneys of this town, and I know the smoke of this town, and I know the Hands of this town. I know 'em all pretty well. They're real. When a man tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it from me." "Bounderby," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a different tone." "Just wait a bit,"<\|quote\|>retorted Bounderby;</\|quote\|>"you have said your say, I believe. I heard you out; hear me out, if you please. Don't make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there's an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I'll give _you_ to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be summed up in this that your daughter don't properly know her husband's merits, and is not impressed with such a sense as would become her, by George! of the honour of his alliance. That's plain speaking, I hope." "Bounderby," urged Mr. Gradgrind, "this is unreasonable." "Is it?" said Bounderby. "I am glad to hear you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, with his new lights, tells me that what I say is unreasonable, I am convinced at once it must be devilish sensible. With your permission I am going on. You know my origin; and you know that for a good many years of my life I didn't want a shoeing-horn, in consequence of not having a shoe. Yet you may believe or not, as you think proper, that there are ladies born ladies belonging to families Families! who next to worship the ground I walk on." He discharged this like a Rocket, at his father-in-law's head. "Whereas your daughter," proceeded Bounderby, "is far from being a born lady. That you know, yourself. Not that I care a pinch of candle-snuff about such things, for you are very well aware I don't; but that such is the fact, and you, Tom Gradgrind, can't change it. Why do I say this?" "Not, I fear," observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a low voice, "to spare me." "Hear me out," said Bounderby, "and refrain from cutting in till your turn comes round. I say this, because highly connected females have been astonished to see the way in which your daughter has conducted herself, and to witness her insensibility. They have wondered how I have suffered it. And I wonder myself now, and I won't suffer it." "Bounderby," returned Mr. Gradgrind, rising, "the less we say to-night the better, I think." "On the contrary, Tom Gradgrind, the more we say to-night, the better, I think. That is," the consideration checked him, "till I have said all I mean to say, and then I don't care how soon we stop. I come to a question that may shorten the business. What do you mean by the proposal you made just now?" "What do I mean, Bounderby?" "By your visiting proposition," said Bounderby, with an inflexible jerk of the hayfield. "I mean that I hope you may be induced to arrange in a friendly manner, for allowing Louisa a period of repose and reflection here, which may tend to a gradual alteration for the better in many respects." "To a softening down of your ideas of the incompatibility?" said Bounderby. "If you put it in those terms." "What made you think of this?" said Bounderby. "I have already said, I fear Louisa has not been understood. Is it asking too much, Bounderby, that you, so far her elder, should aid in trying to set her right? You have accepted a great charge of her; for better for worse, for" Mr. Bounderby may have been annoyed by the repetition of his own words to Stephen	Hard Times
"You were speaking,"	Mr. Frank Churchill	turned towards her to listen.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>said he, gravely. She recovered	by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>said he, gravely. She recovered her voice. "I was only	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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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.	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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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. "Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?" "If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.--Well, I declare--" They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even	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), "I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?" 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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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. "Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?" "If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.--Well, I declare--" They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have _her_ carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again. While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said, "Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?--Emma, I had not thought it possible." Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off. "Nay, how could I help saying what I did?--Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me." "I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--with what candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome." "Oh!" cried Emma, "I know there is not a better creature in the world: but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her." "They are blended," said he, "I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you	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.<\|quote\|>"You were speaking,"</\|quote\|>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. "Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?" "If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one of the ladies in the Irish	Emma
said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.	No speaker	are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference	said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully	which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences,	that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the	matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!"	mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly	serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the "Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and	so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though,"<\|quote\|>said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.</\|quote\|>"How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant. "Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things." "What sort of things?" "There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife." "Perhaps he had." "No!" "Why" 'no'?" "He was such a nice old man, I'm sure." Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence. "Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God." "Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that." "Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy glibly. "Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her mother. Cecil nodded intelligently. "Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked. "I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him." "My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off!	A Room With A View
said Jem laconically.	No speaker	"Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore	light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said	up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box	so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of	high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be	faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be fine," said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just	most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said Don. "See how vigorously they can row, and how energetic they are when they go through the war-dance." "Oh! Any stoopid could jump about and make faces," replied Jem. "I wonder whether they really could fight if there was a row?" "They look as if they could, Jem." "Looks arn't much good in fighting, Mas' Don. Well, anyhow, they're big and strong enough. Look! What a pity we haven't got a gun. Might have shot a pig and had some pork." He pointed to about half-a-dozen good-sized pigs, which had scurried across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be fine," said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with its legs forming a misty appearance like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel. "Sarce is nothing to it, Mas' Don. Why, that little beggar's ten times worse than the old magpie we used to have in the yard. They're so quick, too. Now, just look at that." Either the same or another of the little birds came out of the undergrowth, peering about in the most eccentric manner, and without displaying the least alarm. "Just look at him, Jem." "Look at him, Mas' Don? I am a-looking at him with all my eyes. He's a beauty, he is. Why, if I was a bird like that with such a shabby, dingy looking, sooty suit o' clothes, I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" "Why, I'd moult at once. Look at the rum little beggar. Arn't he comic? Why, he arn't got no wings and no tail. Hi! Cocky, how did you get your beak bent that way? Look as if you'd had it caught in a gate. Have another?" Jem took up a large raspberry-like fruit that he had picked some time before, and held it out to the bird, which stopped short, and held its head down comically, looking first at Jem, and then at the berry. With a rapid twist it turned its head on the other side, and performed the same operation with the left eye. "Well, he is a rum un!" cried Jem, laughing. "Look! Mas' Don, look!" Don was watching the eccentric-looking little creature, which ran forward rapidly, and then paused. "Why, 'tarn't a wild bird at all!" cried Jem. "It's one of the `my pakeha' chap's cocks an' hens. Well, I ham blessed!" For rapid almost as thought, and before Jem could recover from his surprise, the bird had darted forward, seized the fruit, and was off a dozen yards before he had darted out his hand after it. "Too late, Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don, too late that time; but I mean to ketch that chap, just to show him he arn't so clever as he thinks. You sit still, and go on eating, and don't take no notice, and look out--look out." "Oh!" ejaculated Don. For at that moment one of the birds had come up behind him, and almost before he had heard Jem's warning cry, he was made aware of the bird's presence by a sharp dig of its beak in the hand holding a portion of his dinner, which was carried rapidly away. "Magpies is nothing to 'em," cried Jem. "But wait a bit, my fine fellows, and you shall see what you shall see. Pass that there basket, Mas' Don. Ah!	across the path they followed, and then disappeared among the ferns. "Rum thing, it always seems to me that there's nothing here except pigs. There must be, farther in the woods. Mind that hole, my lad." Don carefully avoided stepping into a bubbling patch of hot mud right in their path, and, wondering what would be the consequences of a step in, he went on, in and out, among dangerous water holes and mud springs. Cockatoos whistled overhead, and parrots shrieked, while every now and then they came upon a curious-looking bird, whose covering resembled hair more than feathers, as it cocked its curved bill towards them, and then hurriedly disappeared by diving in amongst the dense low growth. "Look at that!" said Jem. "Ostrich?" "Ostrich!" cried Don contemptuously. "Why, an ostrich is eight feet high." "Not when he's young," said Jem. "That's a little one. Shouldn't wonder if there's some more." "You may be right, Jem, but I don't think there are ostriches here." "Well, I like that," said Jem, "when we've just seen one. I knew it directly. There used to be a picture of one in my old reading-book when I was at school." They trudged on for some distance in silence. "What yer thinking 'bout, Mas' Don?" "Home," said Don, quietly. "Oh! I say, don't think about home, Mas' Don, because if you do, I shall too; it do make me so unked." "I can't help it, Jem. It doesn't seem natural to settle down here, and go on week after week. I get asking myself, what we are doing it for." "To catch fish, and find fruit and keep ourselves alive. Say, Mas' Don, it's under them trees they digs up the big lumps of gum that they burn. Ah, there's a bit." Jem stooped and picked out from among the rotten pine needles a piece of pale yellowish-looking gum of the size of his fist. "That'll do for a light for us," Don said. "Take it back." "Going to,"<\|quote\|>said Jem laconically.</\|quote\|>"We may want it 'fore long." "Here's another bit," said Don, finding a similar sized piece, and thrusting it into the basket. "Couldn't we make some matches, Jem?" "Couldn't we make some matches? Why, of course we could. There's plenty of brimstone, I'm going to try and manage a tinder-box after a time." They again walked on in silence, climbing higher and higher, till, coming to an opening, they both paused in silent admiration of the view spread out before them, of river, lake, and mountain, whose top glistened like silver, where glacier and snow lay unmelted in spite of the summer heat. "Wouldn't you like to go up there, Mas' Don?" said Jem, after a few moments' silence. "Go? I'd give anything to climb up there, Jem. What a view it must be." "Ah, it must, Mas' Don; but we won't try it to-day; and now, as we've been on the tramp a good two hours, I vote we sit down and have a bit of a peck." Don agreed, and they sat down at the edge of the wood to partake of the rather scanty fare which they spread on the ground between them. "Yes, it would be fine," said Jem, with his mouth and hands full. "We ought to go up that mountain some day. I've never been up a mountain. Hi! Wos!" This was shouted at another of the peculiar-looking little birds which ran swiftly out of the undergrowth, gave each in turn a comical look, and then seized a good-sized piece of their provender and ran off. "Well, I call that sarce," said Jem; "that's what I calls that. Ah, if I'd had a stone I'd soon have made him drop that." "Now," said Don laughing, "do you call that an ostrich?" "To be sure I do!" cried Jem. "That proves it. I've read in a book as ostriches do steal and swallow anything--nails, pocket-knives, and bits o' stone. Well! I never did!" Jem snatched off his cap and sent it spinning after another rail which had run up and seized a fruit from their basket, and skimmed off with	Don Lavington
M. Riviere replied.	No speaker	seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then	led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The	as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering	I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here." "You knew--?" "Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that	"if this is the line you took with the Countess Olenska?" M. Riviere reddened, but his eyes did not falter. "No, Monsieur: I accepted my mission in good faith. I really believed--for reasons I need not trouble you with--that it would be better for Madame Olenska to recover her situation, her fortune, the social consideration that her husband's standing gives her." "So I supposed: you could hardly have accepted such a mission otherwise." "I should not have accepted it." "Well, then--?" Archer paused again, and their eyes met in another protracted scrutiny. "Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here." "You knew--?" "Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent. "The change--what sort of a change?" "Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!" M. Riviere paused. "Tenez--the discovery, I suppose, of what I'd never thought of before: that she's an American. And that if you're an American of HER kind--of your kind--things that are accepted in certain other societies, or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and-take--become unthinkable, simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska's relations understood what these things were, their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own; but they seem to regard her husband's wish	not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted. Archer looked up and met his visitor's anxious gaze. "Don't you know, Monsieur--is it possible you don't know--that the family begin to doubt if they have the right to advise the Countess to refuse her husband's last proposals?" "The proposals you brought?" "The proposals I brought." It was on Archer's lips to exclaim that whatever he knew or did not know was no concern of M. Riviere's; but something in the humble and yet courageous tenacity of M. Riviere's gaze made him reject this conclusion, and he met the young man's question with another. "What is your object in speaking to me of this?" He had not to wait a moment for the answer. "To beg you, Monsieur--to beg you with all the force I'm capable of--not to let her go back.--Oh, don't let her!" M. Riviere exclaimed. Archer looked at him with increasing astonishment. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his distress or the strength of his determination: he had evidently resolved to let everything go by the board but the supreme need of thus putting himself on record. Archer considered. "May I ask," he said at length, "if this is the line you took with the Countess Olenska?" M. Riviere reddened, but his eyes did not falter. "No, Monsieur: I accepted my mission in good faith. I really believed--for reasons I need not trouble you with--that it would be better for Madame Olenska to recover her situation, her fortune, the social consideration that her husband's standing gives her." "So I supposed: you could hardly have accepted such a mission otherwise." "I should not have accepted it." "Well, then--?" Archer paused again, and their eyes met in another protracted scrutiny. "Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here." "You knew--?" "Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent. "The change--what sort of a change?" "Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!" M. Riviere paused. "Tenez--the discovery, I suppose, of what I'd never thought of before: that she's an American. And that if you're an American of HER kind--of your kind--things that are accepted in certain other societies, or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and-take--become unthinkable, simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska's relations understood what these things were, their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own; but they seem to regard her husband's wish to have her back as proof of an irresistible longing for domestic life." M. Riviere paused, and then added: "Whereas it's far from being as simple as that." Archer looked back to the President of the United States, and then down at his desk and at the papers scattered on it. For a second or two he could not trust himself to speak. During this interval he heard M. Riviere's chair pushed back, and was aware that the young man had risen. When he glanced up again he saw that his visitor was as moved as himself. "Thank you," Archer said simply. "There's nothing to thank me for, Monsieur: it is I, rather--" M. Riviere broke off, as if speech for him too were difficult. "I should like, though," he continued in a firmer voice, "to add one thing. You asked me if I was in Count Olenski's employ. I am at this moment: I returned to him, a few months ago, for reasons of private necessity such as may happen to any one who has persons, ill and older persons, dependent on him. But from the moment that I have taken the step of coming here to say these	you perhaps believe the whole matter to be already closed?" His quiet insistence made Archer feel the clumsiness of his own bluster. M. Riviere had succeeded in imposing himself: Archer, reddening slightly, dropped into his chair again, and signed to the young man to be seated. "I beg your pardon: but why isn't the matter closed?" M. Riviere gazed back at him with anguish. "You do, then, agree with the rest of the family that, in face of the new proposals I have brought, it is hardly possible for Madame Olenska not to return to her husband?" "Good God!" Archer exclaimed; and his visitor gave out a low murmur of confirmation. "Before seeing her, I saw--at Count Olenski's request--Mr. Lovell Mingott, with whom I had several talks before going to Boston. I understand that he represents his mother's view; and that Mrs. Manson Mingott's influence is great throughout her family." Archer sat silent, with the sense of clinging to the edge of a sliding precipice. The discovery that he had been excluded from a share in these negotiations, and even from the knowledge that they were on foot, caused him a surprise hardly dulled by the acuter wonder of what he was learning. He saw in a flash that if the family had ceased to consult him it was because some deep tribal instinct warned them that he was no longer on their side; and he recalled, with a start of comprehension, a remark of May's during their drive home from Mrs. Manson Mingott's on the day of the Archery Meeting: "Perhaps, after all, Ellen would be happier with her husband." Even in the tumult of new discoveries Archer remembered his indignant exclamation, and the fact that since then his wife had never named Madame Olenska to him. Her careless allusion had no doubt been the straw held up to see which way the wind blew; the result had been reported to the family, and thereafter Archer had been tacitly omitted from their counsels. He admired the tribal discipline which made May bow to this decision. She would not have done so, he knew, had her conscience protested; but she probably shared the family view that Madame Olenska would be better off as an unhappy wife than as a separated one, and that there was no use in discussing the case with Newland, who had an awkward way of suddenly not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted. Archer looked up and met his visitor's anxious gaze. "Don't you know, Monsieur--is it possible you don't know--that the family begin to doubt if they have the right to advise the Countess to refuse her husband's last proposals?" "The proposals you brought?" "The proposals I brought." It was on Archer's lips to exclaim that whatever he knew or did not know was no concern of M. Riviere's; but something in the humble and yet courageous tenacity of M. Riviere's gaze made him reject this conclusion, and he met the young man's question with another. "What is your object in speaking to me of this?" He had not to wait a moment for the answer. "To beg you, Monsieur--to beg you with all the force I'm capable of--not to let her go back.--Oh, don't let her!" M. Riviere exclaimed. Archer looked at him with increasing astonishment. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his distress or the strength of his determination: he had evidently resolved to let everything go by the board but the supreme need of thus putting himself on record. Archer considered. "May I ask," he said at length, "if this is the line you took with the Countess Olenska?" M. Riviere reddened, but his eyes did not falter. "No, Monsieur: I accepted my mission in good faith. I really believed--for reasons I need not trouble you with--that it would be better for Madame Olenska to recover her situation, her fortune, the social consideration that her husband's standing gives her." "So I supposed: you could hardly have accepted such a mission otherwise." "I should not have accepted it." "Well, then--?" Archer paused again, and their eyes met in another protracted scrutiny. "Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here." "You knew--?" "Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent. "The change--what sort of a change?" "Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!" M. Riviere paused. "Tenez--the discovery, I suppose, of what I'd never thought of before: that she's an American. And that if you're an American of HER kind--of your kind--things that are accepted in certain other societies, or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and-take--become unthinkable, simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska's relations understood what these things were, their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own; but they seem to regard her husband's wish to have her back as proof of an irresistible longing for domestic life." M. Riviere paused, and then added: "Whereas it's far from being as simple as that." Archer looked back to the President of the United States, and then down at his desk and at the papers scattered on it. For a second or two he could not trust himself to speak. During this interval he heard M. Riviere's chair pushed back, and was aware that the young man had risen. When he glanced up again he saw that his visitor was as moved as himself. "Thank you," Archer said simply. "There's nothing to thank me for, Monsieur: it is I, rather--" M. Riviere broke off, as if speech for him too were difficult. "I should like, though," he continued in a firmer voice, "to add one thing. You asked me if I was in Count Olenski's employ. I am at this moment: I returned to him, a few months ago, for reasons of private necessity such as may happen to any one who has persons, ill and older persons, dependent on him. But from the moment that I have taken the step of coming here to say these things to you I consider myself discharged, and I shall tell him so on my return, and give him the reasons. That's all, Monsieur." M. Riviere bowed and drew back a step. "Thank you," Archer said again, as their hands met. XXVI. Every year on the fifteenth of October Fifth Avenue opened its shutters, unrolled its carpets and hung up its triple layer of window-curtains. By the first of November this household ritual was over, and society had begun to look about and take stock of itself. By the fifteenth the season was in full blast, Opera and theatres were putting forth their new attractions, dinner-engagements were accumulating, and dates for dances being fixed. And punctually at about this time Mrs. Archer always said that New York was very much changed. Observing it from the lofty stand-point of a non-participant, she was able, with the help of Mr. Sillerton Jackson and Miss Sophy, to trace each new crack in its surface, and all the strange weeds pushing up between the ordered rows of social vegetables. It had been one of the amusements of Archer's youth to wait for this annual pronouncement of his mother's, and to hear her enumerate the minute signs of disintegration that his careless gaze had overlooked. For New York, to Mrs. Archer's mind, never changed without changing for the worse; and in this view Miss Sophy Jackson heartily concurred. Mr. Sillerton Jackson, as became a man of the world, suspended his judgment and listened with an amused impartiality to the lamentations of the ladies. But even he never denied that New York had changed; and Newland Archer, in the winter of the second year of his marriage, was himself obliged to admit that if it had not actually changed it was certainly changing. These points had been raised, as usual, at Mrs. Archer's Thanksgiving dinner. At the date when she was officially enjoined to give thanks for the blessings of the year it was her habit to take a mournful though not embittered stock of her world, and wonder what there was to be thankful for. At any rate, not the state of society; society, if it could be said to exist, was rather a spectacle on which to call down Biblical imprecations--and in fact, every one knew what the Reverend Dr. Ashmore meant when he chose a text from Jeremiah (chap. ii., verse 25) for	it was because some deep tribal instinct warned them that he was no longer on their side; and he recalled, with a start of comprehension, a remark of May's during their drive home from Mrs. Manson Mingott's on the day of the Archery Meeting: "Perhaps, after all, Ellen would be happier with her husband." Even in the tumult of new discoveries Archer remembered his indignant exclamation, and the fact that since then his wife had never named Madame Olenska to him. Her careless allusion had no doubt been the straw held up to see which way the wind blew; the result had been reported to the family, and thereafter Archer had been tacitly omitted from their counsels. He admired the tribal discipline which made May bow to this decision. She would not have done so, he knew, had her conscience protested; but she probably shared the family view that Madame Olenska would be better off as an unhappy wife than as a separated one, and that there was no use in discussing the case with Newland, who had an awkward way of suddenly not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted. Archer looked up and met his visitor's anxious gaze. "Don't you know, Monsieur--is it possible you don't know--that the family begin to doubt if they have the right to advise the Countess to refuse her husband's last proposals?" "The proposals you brought?" "The proposals I brought." It was on Archer's lips to exclaim that whatever he knew or did not know was no concern of M. Riviere's; but something in the humble and yet courageous tenacity of M. Riviere's gaze made him reject this conclusion, and he met the young man's question with another. "What is your object in speaking to me of this?" He had not to wait a moment for the answer. "To beg you, Monsieur--to beg you with all the force I'm capable of--not to let her go back.--Oh, don't let her!" M. Riviere exclaimed. Archer looked at him with increasing astonishment. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his distress or the strength of his determination: he had evidently resolved to let everything go by the board but the supreme need of thus putting himself on record. Archer considered. "May I ask," he said at length, "if this is the line you took with the Countess Olenska?" M. Riviere reddened, but his eyes did not falter. "No, Monsieur: I accepted my mission in good faith. I really believed--for reasons I need not trouble you with--that it would be better for Madame Olenska to recover her situation, her fortune, the social consideration that her husband's standing gives her." "So I supposed: you could hardly have accepted such a mission otherwise." "I should not have accepted it." "Well, then--?" Archer paused again, and their eyes met in another protracted scrutiny. "Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here." "You knew--?" "Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently." "May I ask what led to this change?" "Simply seeing the change in HER,"<\|quote\|>M. Riviere replied.</\|quote\|>"The change in her? Then you knew her before?" The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission." Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent. "The change--what sort of a change?" "Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!" M. Riviere paused. "Tenez--the discovery, I suppose, of what I'd never thought of before: that she's an American. And that if you're an American of HER kind--of your kind--things that are accepted in certain other societies, or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and-take--become unthinkable, simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska's relations understood what these things were, their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own; but they seem to regard her husband's wish to have her back as proof of an irresistible longing for domestic life." M. Riviere paused, and then added: "Whereas it's far from being as simple as that." Archer looked back to the President of the United States, and then down at his desk and at the papers scattered on it. For a second or two he could not trust himself to speak. During this interval he heard M. Riviere's chair pushed back, and was aware that the young man had risen. When he glanced up again he saw that his visitor was as moved as himself. "Thank you," Archer said simply. "There's nothing to thank me for, Monsieur: it is I, rather--" M. Riviere broke off, as if speech for him too were difficult. "I should like, though," he continued in a firmer voice, "to add one thing. You asked me if I was in Count Olenski's employ. I am at this moment: I returned to him, a few months ago, for reasons of private necessity such as may happen to any one who has persons, ill and older persons, dependent on him. But from the moment that I have taken the step of coming here to say these things to you I consider myself discharged, and I shall tell him so on my return, and give him the reasons. That's all, Monsieur." M. Riviere bowed and drew back a step. "Thank you," Archer said again, as their hands met. XXVI. Every year on the fifteenth of October Fifth Avenue opened its shutters, unrolled its carpets and hung up its triple layer of window-curtains. By the first of November this household ritual was over, and society had begun to look about and take stock of itself. By the fifteenth the season was in full blast, Opera and theatres were putting forth their new attractions, dinner-engagements were accumulating, and dates for dances being fixed. And punctually at about this time Mrs. Archer always said that New York was very much changed. Observing it from the lofty stand-point of a non-participant, she was able, with the help of Mr.	The Age Of Innocence
"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"	Tony Last	of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I	Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find	when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go	much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I	well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I	"Yes, I'm allowing her five hundred a year." "Well, you know, I don't think that you have any right to take advantage of her generosity in that way. It was most imprudent of her to consider your proposal--she admits now that she was not really herself when she did so." "What does she suggest instead?" "Let's go outside and have coffee." When they were settled in front of the fire in the empty smoking-room, he answered, "Well, I've discussed it with the lawyers and with the family and we decided that the sum should be increased to two thousand." "That's quite out of the question. I couldn't begin to afford it." "Well, you know, I have to consider Brenda's interests. She has very little of her own and there will be no more coming to her. My mother's income is an allowance which I pay under my father's will. I shan't be able to give her anything. I am trying to raise everything I can for an expedition to one of the oases in the Libyan desert. This chap Beaver has got practically nothing and doesn't look like earning any. So you see--" "But, my dear Reggie, you know as well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all,	had found forty-three up-to-date, before this wretched business happened, and I had to come back. Naturally I'm upset." He sat for a little, eating silently. This last observation had brought the conversation back to its point of departure. He clearly had more to say on the subject and was meditating the most convenient approach. He ate in a ruthless manner, champing his food (it was his habit, often, without noticing it, to consume things that others usually left on their plates, the heads and tails of whiting, whole mouthfuls of chicken bone, peach stones and apple cores, cheese rinds and the fibrous parts of the artichoke). "Besides, you know," he said, "it isn't as though it was all Brenda's fault." "I haven't been thinking particularly whose fault it is." "Well, that's all very well, but you seem rather to be taking the line of the injured husband--saying you can't feel the same again, and all that. I mean to say, it takes two to make a quarrel and I gather things had been going wrong for some time. For instance, you'd been drinking a lot--have some more burgundy, by the way." "Did Brenda say that?" "Yes. And then you'd been going round a bit with other girls yourself. There was some woman with a Moorish name you had to stay at Hetton while Brenda was there. Well, that's a bit thick, you know. I'm all for people going their own way, but if they do they can't blame others, if you see what I mean." "Did Brenda say that?" "Yes. Don't think I'm trying to lecture you or anything, but all I feel is that you haven't any right to be vindictive to Brenda, as things are." "She said I drank and was having an affair with the woman with a Moorish name?" "Well, I don't know she actually said that, but she said you'd been getting tight lately and that you were certainly interested in that girl." The fat young man opposite Tony ordered prunes and cream. Tony said he had finished dinner. He had imagined during the preceding week-end that nothing could now surprise him. "So that really explains what I want to say," continued Reggie blandly. "It's about money. I understand that when Brenda was in a very agitated state just after the death of her child, she consented to some verbal arrangement with you about settlements." "Yes, I'm allowing her five hundred a year." "Well, you know, I don't think that you have any right to take advantage of her generosity in that way. It was most imprudent of her to consider your proposal--she admits now that she was not really herself when she did so." "What does she suggest instead?" "Let's go outside and have coffee." When they were settled in front of the fire in the empty smoking-room, he answered, "Well, I've discussed it with the lawyers and with the family and we decided that the sum should be increased to two thousand." "That's quite out of the question. I couldn't begin to afford it." "Well, you know, I have to consider Brenda's interests. She has very little of her own and there will be no more coming to her. My mother's income is an allowance which I pay under my father's will. I shan't be able to give her anything. I am trying to raise everything I can for an expedition to one of the oases in the Libyan desert. This chap Beaver has got practically nothing and doesn't look like earning any. So you see--" "But, my dear Reggie, you know as well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of it. If that's all you wanted to say, I may as well leave you." "No, it isn't quite all I wanted to say. In fact I think I must have put things rather badly. It comes from trying to respect people's feelings too much. You see, I wasn't so much asking you to agree to anything as explaining what our side propose to do. I've tried to keep everything on a friendly basis but I see it's not possible. Brenda will ask for alimony of two thousand a year from the Court and on our evidence we shall get it. I'm sorry you oblige me to put it so bluntly." "I hadn't thought of that." "No, nor had we, to be quite frank. It was Beaver's idea." "You seem to have got me in a fairly hopeless position." "It's not how I should have put it." "I should like to make absolutely sure that Brenda is in on this. D'you mind if I ring her up?" "Not at all, my dear fellow. I happen to know she's at Marjorie's to-night." * * * * * "Brenda, this is Tony... I've just been dining with Reggie." "Yes, he said something about it." "He tells me that you are going to sue for alimony. Is that so?" "Tony, don't be so bullying. The lawyers are doing everything. It's no use coming to me." "But did you know that they proposed to ask for two thousand?" "Yes. They did say that. I know it sounds a lot but..." "And you know exactly how my money stands, don't you? You know it means selling Hetton, don't you?... hullo, are you still there?" "Yes, I'm here." "You know it means that?" "Tony, don't make me feel a beast. Everything has been so difficult." "You do know just what you are asking?" "Yes... I suppose so." "All right, that's all I wanted to know." "Tony, how odd you sound... don't ring off." He hung up the receiver and went back to the smoking-room. His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief... there was now no armour glittering through the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the green sward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled... Reggie sat expanded in his chair. "Well?" "I got on to her. You were quite right. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. It seemed so unlikely at first." "That's all right, my dear fellow." "I've decided exactly what's going to happen." "Good." "Brenda is not going to get her divorce. The evidence I provided at Brighton isn't worth anything. There happens to have been a child there all the time. She slept both nights in the room I am supposed to have occupied. If you care to bring the case I shall defend it and win, but I think when you have seen my evidence you will drop it. I am going away for six months or so. When I come back, if she wishes it, I shall divorce Brenda without settlements of any kind. Is that clear?" "But look here, my dear fellow." "Good night. Thank you for the dinner. Good luck to the excavations." On his way out of the club he noticed that John Beaver of Bratt's Club was up for election. * * * * * "Who on earth would have expected the	haven't any right to be vindictive to Brenda, as things are." "She said I drank and was having an affair with the woman with a Moorish name?" "Well, I don't know she actually said that, but she said you'd been getting tight lately and that you were certainly interested in that girl." The fat young man opposite Tony ordered prunes and cream. Tony said he had finished dinner. He had imagined during the preceding week-end that nothing could now surprise him. "So that really explains what I want to say," continued Reggie blandly. "It's about money. I understand that when Brenda was in a very agitated state just after the death of her child, she consented to some verbal arrangement with you about settlements." "Yes, I'm allowing her five hundred a year." "Well, you know, I don't think that you have any right to take advantage of her generosity in that way. It was most imprudent of her to consider your proposal--she admits now that she was not really herself when she did so." "What does she suggest instead?" "Let's go outside and have coffee." When they were settled in front of the fire in the empty smoking-room, he answered, "Well, I've discussed it with the lawyers and with the family and we decided that the sum should be increased to two thousand." "That's quite out of the question. I couldn't begin to afford it." "Well, you know, I have to consider Brenda's interests. She has very little of her own and there will be no more coming to her. My mother's income is an allowance which I pay under my father's will. I shan't be able to give her anything. I am trying to raise everything I can for an expedition to one of the oases in the Libyan desert. This chap Beaver has got practically nothing and doesn't look like earning any. So you see--" "But, my dear Reggie, you know as well as I do that it's out of the question." "It's rather less than a third of your income." "Yes, but almost every penny goes straight back to the estate. Do you realize that Brenda and I together haven't spent half that amount a year on our personal expenses? It's all I can do to keep things going as it is." "I didn't expect you'd take this line, Tony. I think it's extremely unreasonable of you. After all, it's absurd to pretend in these days that a single man can't be perfectly comfortable on four thousand a year. It's as much as I've ever had." "It would mean giving up Hetton." "Well, I gave up Brakeleigh, and I assure you, my dear fellow, I never regret it. It was a nasty wrench at the time, of course, old association and everything like that, but I can tell you this, that when the sale was finally through I felt a different man, free to go where I liked..." "But I don't happen to want to go anywhere else except Hetton." "There's a lot in what these Labour fellows say, you know. Big houses are a thing of the past in England."<\|quote\|>"Tell me, did Brenda realize when she agreed to this proposal that it meant my leaving Hetton?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, it was mentioned, I think. I daresay you'll find it quite easy to sell to a school or something like that. I remember the agent said when I was trying to get rid of Brakeleigh that it was a pity it wasn't Gothic, because schools and convents always go for Gothic. I daresay you'll get a very comfortable price and find yourself better off in the end than you are now." "No. It's impossible," said Tony. "You're making things extremely awkward for everyone," said Reggie. "I can't understand why you are taking up this attitude." "What is more, I don't believe that Brenda ever expected or wanted me to agree." "Oh yes, she did, my dear fellow. I assure you of that." "It's inconceivable." "Well," said Reggie, puffing at his cigar, "there's more to it than just money. Perhaps I'd better tell you everything. I hadn't meant to. The truth is that Beaver is cutting up nasty. He says he can't marry Brenda unless she's properly provided for. Not fair on her, he says. I quite see his point in a way." "Yes, I see his point," said Tony. "So what your proposal really amounts to, is that I should give up Hetton in order to buy Beaver for Brenda." "It's not how I should have put it," said Reggie. "Well, I'm not going to and that's the end of	A Handful Of Dust
he said.	No speaker	door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a	he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get	eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as	up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is	house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who	and he felt rather on a supreme adventure. He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret s amongst them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, "Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life." "Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong." The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had sense. "Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. "He s shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air." Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. "That s enough," said Charles. "Yes, murder s enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non." "Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?" "Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles." On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun. "It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there, and they had the man up there with them too." "What--what man?" "I told you last night. His name was Bast." "My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother s house! Charles, in your mother s house!" "I know, pater. That	of "now." She did not free Leonard yet, and the knife plunged deeper into his heart as the train drew up at Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful. Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting. Leonard noticed the contrast when he stepped out of it into the country. Here men had been up since dawn. Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by the movements of the crops and the sun. That they were men of the finest type only the sentimentalists can declare. But they kept to the life of daylight. They are England s hope. Clumsily they carry forward the torch of the sun, until such time as the nation sees fit to take it up. Half clodhopper, half board-school prig, they can still throw back to a nobler stock, and breed yeomen. At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was another type, whom Nature favours--the Imperial. Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes to inherit the earth. It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly; strong is the temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman, who carries his country s virtue overseas. But the Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems. He is a destroyer. He prepares the way for cosmopolitanism, and though his ambitions may be fulfilled, the earth that he inherits will be grey. To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the conviction of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not the optimism which he had been taught at school. Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the superficial. It was rather paradoxical, and arose from his sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him--that is the best account of it that has yet been given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that is great in us, and strengthen the wings of love. They can beckon; it is not certain that they will, for they are not love s servants. But they can beckon, and the knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him. As he approached the house all thought stopped. Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind. He was terrified but happy, ashamed, but had done no sin. He knew the confession: "Mrs. Wilcox, I have done wrong," but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt rather on a supreme adventure. He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret s amongst them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, "Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life." "Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong." The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had sense. "Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. "He s shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air." Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. "That s enough," said Charles. "Yes, murder s enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non." "Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?" "Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles." On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun. "It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there, and they had the man up there with them too." "What--what man?" "I told you last night. His name was Bast." "My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother s house! Charles, in your mother s house!" "I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went off. The police are seeing about it at this moment." Mr. Wilcox listened attentively. "I got up there--oh, it couldn t have been more than half-past seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and collected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, and Mrs. Wilcox said," Oh yes, I see; yes, "in that way of hers." "Nothing else?" "I promised to tell you, with her love, that she was going to Germany with her sister this evening. That was all we had time for." Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved. "Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hiding, for suddenly Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his name. I recognised it, and I went for him in the hall. Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little too far." "Right, my dear boy? I don t know. But you would have been no son of mine if you hadn t. Then did he just--just--crumple up as you said?" He shrunk from the simple word. "He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down over him. So I merely put the sword down and carried him into the garden. We all thought he was shamming. However, he s dead right enough. Awful business!" "Sword?" cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. "What sword? Whose sword?" "A sword of theirs." "What were you doing with it?" "Well, didn t you see, pater, I had to snatch up the first thing handy. I hadn t a riding-whip or stick. I caught him once or twice over the shoulders with the flat of their old German sword." "Then what?" "He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell," said Charles, with a sigh. It was no fun doing errands for his father, who was never quite satisfied. "But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you re sure?" "That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than enough at the inquest on such unsavoury topics." They went in to breakfast. Charles had a racking headache, consequent on	be grey. To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the conviction of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not the optimism which he had been taught at school. Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the superficial. It was rather paradoxical, and arose from his sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him--that is the best account of it that has yet been given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that is great in us, and strengthen the wings of love. They can beckon; it is not certain that they will, for they are not love s servants. But they can beckon, and the knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him. As he approached the house all thought stopped. Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind. He was terrified but happy, ashamed, but had done no sin. He knew the confession: "Mrs. Wilcox, I have done wrong," but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt rather on a supreme adventure. He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret s amongst them. His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, "Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life." "Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong." The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had sense. "Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. "He s shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air." Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. "That s enough," said Charles. "Yes, murder s enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the sword. CHAPTER XLII When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. "I don t know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her." "Tell me when she comes in." Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. "I ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?" "Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--" "perhaps." "Can I do anything for you, sir?" "Not to-night, my boy." Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children were left to him. After midnight he tapped on Charles s door. "I can t sleep,"<\|quote\|>he said.</\|quote\|>"I had better have a talk with you and get it over." He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. "She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won t have it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property itself." "Undoubtedly," said Charles. Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son s, but somehow liked him less as he told him more. "I don t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non." "Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?" "Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles." On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun. "It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there, and they had the man up there with them too." "What--what man?" "I told you last night. His name was Bast." "My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother s house! Charles, in your mother s house!" "I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went off. The police are seeing about it at this moment." Mr. Wilcox listened attentively. "I got up there--oh, it couldn t have been more than half-past seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and collected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, and Mrs. Wilcox said," Oh yes, I see; yes, "in that way of hers." "Nothing else?" "I promised to tell you, with her love, that she was going to Germany with her sister this	Howards End
Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said	No speaker	I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that	reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on	to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You	can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace." Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question. "No," said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell." And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child "I wish I knew why I was hurt so much." Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then	costly robe in his hand. "I know what you mean," he cried, "and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace." Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question. "No," said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell." And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child "I wish I knew why I was hurt so much." Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said "I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also." The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the	world, I sent you out to war. I sat in the darkness, where there is not any created thing, and to you I was only a voice commanding valour and an unnatural virtue. You heard the voice in the dark, and you never heard it again. The sun in heaven denied it, the earth and sky denied it, all human wisdom denied it. And when I met you in the daylight I denied it myself." Syme stirred sharply in his seat, but otherwise there was silence, and the incomprehensible went on. "But you were men. You did not forget your secret honour, though the whole cosmos turned an engine of torture to tear it out of you. I knew how near you were to hell. I know how you, Thursday, crossed swords with King Satan, and how you, Wednesday, named me in the hour without hope." There was complete silence in the starlit garden, and then the black-browed Secretary, implacable, turned in his chair towards Sunday, and said in a harsh voice "Who and what are you?" "I am the Sabbath," said the other without moving. "I am the peace of God." The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand. "I know what you mean," he cried, "and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace." Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question. "No," said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell." And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child "I wish I knew why I was hurt so much." Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said "I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also." The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the servants, a kind of sword by his side. It was only when he had come quite close to the crescent of the seven and flung up his face to look at them, that Syme saw, with thunder-struck clearness, that the face was the broad, almost ape-like face of his old friend Gregory, with its rank red hair and its insulting smile. "Gregory!" gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat. "Why, this is the real anarchist!" "Yes," said Gregory, with a great and dangerous restraint, "I am the real anarchist." "'Now there was a day,'" murmured Bull, who seemed really to have fallen asleep, "'when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.'" "You are right," said Gregory, and gazed all round. "I am a destroyer. I would destroy the world if I could." A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and he spoke brokenly and without sequence. "Oh, most unhappy man," he cried, "try to be happy! You have red hair like your sister." "My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world," said Gregory. "I thought I hated everything more than common men	draped plainly, in a pure and terrible white, and his hair was like a silver flame on his forehead. For a long time it seemed for hours that huge masquerade of mankind swayed and stamped in front of them to marching and exultant music. Every couple dancing seemed a separate romance; it might be a fairy dancing with a pillar-box, or a peasant girl dancing with the moon; but in each case it was, somehow, as absurd as Alice in Wonderland, yet as grave and kind as a love story. At last, however, the thick crowd began to thin itself. Couples strolled away into the garden-walks, or began to drift towards that end of the building where stood smoking, in huge pots like fish-kettles, some hot and scented mixtures of old ale or wine. Above all these, upon a sort of black framework on the roof of the house, roared in its iron basket a gigantic bonfire, which lit up the land for miles. It flung the homely effect of firelight over the face of vast forests of grey or brown, and it seemed to fill with warmth even the emptiness of upper night. Yet this also, after a time, was allowed to grow fainter; the dim groups gathered more and more round the great cauldrons, or passed, laughing and clattering, into the inner passages of that ancient house. Soon there were only some ten loiterers in the garden; soon only four. Finally the last stray merry-maker ran into the house whooping to his companions. The fire faded, and the slow, strong stars came out. And the seven strange men were left alone, like seven stone statues on their chairs of stone. Not one of them had spoken a word. They seemed in no haste to do so, but heard in silence the hum of insects and the distant song of one bird. Then Sunday spoke, but so dreamily that he might have been continuing a conversation rather than beginning one. "We will eat and drink later," he said. "Let us remain together a little, we who have loved each other so sadly, and have fought so long. I seem to remember only centuries of heroic war, in which you were always heroes epic on epic, iliad on iliad, and you always brothers in arms. Whether it was but recently (for time is nothing), or at the beginning of the world, I sent you out to war. I sat in the darkness, where there is not any created thing, and to you I was only a voice commanding valour and an unnatural virtue. You heard the voice in the dark, and you never heard it again. The sun in heaven denied it, the earth and sky denied it, all human wisdom denied it. And when I met you in the daylight I denied it myself." Syme stirred sharply in his seat, but otherwise there was silence, and the incomprehensible went on. "But you were men. You did not forget your secret honour, though the whole cosmos turned an engine of torture to tear it out of you. I knew how near you were to hell. I know how you, Thursday, crossed swords with King Satan, and how you, Wednesday, named me in the hour without hope." There was complete silence in the starlit garden, and then the black-browed Secretary, implacable, turned in his chair towards Sunday, and said in a harsh voice "Who and what are you?" "I am the Sabbath," said the other without moving. "I am the peace of God." The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand. "I know what you mean," he cried, "and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace." Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question. "No," said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell." And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child "I wish I knew why I was hurt so much." Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said "I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also." The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the servants, a kind of sword by his side. It was only when he had come quite close to the crescent of the seven and flung up his face to look at them, that Syme saw, with thunder-struck clearness, that the face was the broad, almost ape-like face of his old friend Gregory, with its rank red hair and its insulting smile. "Gregory!" gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat. "Why, this is the real anarchist!" "Yes," said Gregory, with a great and dangerous restraint, "I am the real anarchist." "'Now there was a day,'" murmured Bull, who seemed really to have fallen asleep, "'when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.'" "You are right," said Gregory, and gazed all round. "I am a destroyer. I would destroy the world if I could." A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and he spoke brokenly and without sequence. "Oh, most unhappy man," he cried, "try to be happy! You have red hair like your sister." "My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world," said Gregory. "I thought I hated everything more than common men can hate anything; but I find that I do not hate everything so much as I hate you!" "I never hated you," said Syme very sadly. Then out of this unintelligible creature the last thunders broke. "You!" he cried. "You never hated because you never lived. I know what you are all of you, from first to last you are the people in power! You are the police the great fat, smiling men in blue and buttons! You are the Law, and you have never been broken. But is there a free soul alive that does not long to break you, only because you have never been broken? We in revolt talk all kind of nonsense doubtless about this crime or that crime of the Government. It is all folly! The only crime of the Government is that it governs. The unpardonable sin of the supreme power is that it is supreme. I do not curse you for being cruel. I do not curse you (though I might) for being kind. I curse you for being safe! You sit in your chairs of stone, and have never come down from them. You are the seven angels of heaven, and you have had no troubles. Oh, I could forgive you everything, you that rule all mankind, if I could feel for once that you had suffered for one hour a real agony such as I" Syme sprang to his feet, shaking from head to foot. "I see everything," he cried, "everything that there is. Why does each thing on the earth war against each other thing? Why does each small thing in the world have to fight against the world itself? Why does a fly have to fight the whole universe? Why does a dandelion have to fight the whole universe? For the same reason that I had to be alone in the dreadful Council of the Days. So that each thing that obeys law may have the glory and isolation of the anarchist. So that each man fighting for order may be as brave and good a man as the dynamiter. So that the real lie of Satan may be flung back in the face of this blasphemer, so that by tears and torture we may earn the right to say to this man, 'You lie!' No agonies can be too great to buy the right to say to this	always heroes epic on epic, iliad on iliad, and you always brothers in arms. Whether it was but recently (for time is nothing), or at the beginning of the world, I sent you out to war. I sat in the darkness, where there is not any created thing, and to you I was only a voice commanding valour and an unnatural virtue. You heard the voice in the dark, and you never heard it again. The sun in heaven denied it, the earth and sky denied it, all human wisdom denied it. And when I met you in the daylight I denied it myself." Syme stirred sharply in his seat, but otherwise there was silence, and the incomprehensible went on. "But you were men. You did not forget your secret honour, though the whole cosmos turned an engine of torture to tear it out of you. I knew how near you were to hell. I know how you, Thursday, crossed swords with King Satan, and how you, Wednesday, named me in the hour without hope." There was complete silence in the starlit garden, and then the black-browed Secretary, implacable, turned in his chair towards Sunday, and said in a harsh voice "Who and what are you?" "I am the Sabbath," said the other without moving. "I am the peace of God." The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand. "I know what you mean," he cried, "and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace." Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question. "No," said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."<\|quote\|>Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said</\|quote\|>"It seems so _silly_ that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself." Bull said "I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep." "I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell." And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child "I wish I knew why I was hurt so much." Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said "I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also." The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the servants, a kind of sword by his side. It was only when he had come quite close to the crescent of the seven and flung up his face to look at them, that Syme saw, with thunder-struck clearness, that the face was the broad, almost ape-like face of his old friend Gregory, with its rank red hair and its insulting	The Man Who Was Thursday
She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:	No speaker	"Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know	you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had	herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made	a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed,	he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and	he said, pushing her chair near the fire. She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's something I must tell you. I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?" "About myself. You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired ..." In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've been so wickedly overworked--" "Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child, Mary (who was so like her mother), had announced her engagement to the dullest	in an undertone to young Mrs. Newland; and he remembered Beaufort's coarse sneer at May's ineffectual beauty. A moment later he was in the hall, putting Madame Olenska's cloak about her shoulders. Through all his confusion of mind he had held fast to the resolve to say nothing that might startle or disturb her. Convinced that no power could now turn him from his purpose he had found strength to let events shape themselves as they would. But as he followed Madame Olenska into the hall he thought with a sudden hunger of being for a moment alone with her at the door of her carriage. "Is your carriage here?" he asked; and at that moment Mrs. van der Luyden, who was being majestically inserted into her sables, said gently: "We are driving dear Ellen home." Archer's heart gave a jerk, and Madame Olenska, clasping her cloak and fan with one hand, held out the other to him. "Good-bye," she said. "Good-bye--but I shall see you soon in Paris," he answered aloud--it seemed to him that he had shouted it. "Oh," she murmured, "if you and May could come--!" Mr. van der Luyden advanced to give her his arm, and Archer turned to Mrs. van der Luyden. For a moment, in the billowy darkness inside the big landau, he caught the dim oval of a face, eyes shining steadily--and she was gone. As he went up the steps he crossed Lawrence Lefferts coming down with his wife. Lefferts caught his host by the sleeve, drawing back to let Gertrude pass. "I say, old chap: do you mind just letting it be understood that I'm dining with you at the club tomorrow night? Thanks so much, you old brick! Good-night." "It DID go off beautifully, didn't it?" May questioned from the threshold of the library. Archer roused himself with a start. As soon as the last carriage had driven away, he had come up to the library and shut himself in, with the hope that his wife, who still lingered below, would go straight to her room. But there she stood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the factitious energy of one who has passed beyond fatigue. "May I come and talk it over?" she asked. "Of course, if you like. But you must be awfully sleepy--" "No, I'm not sleepy. I should like to sit with you a little." "Very well," he said, pushing her chair near the fire. She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's something I must tell you. I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?" "About myself. You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired ..." In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've been so wickedly overworked--" "Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child, Mary (who was so like her mother), had announced her engagement to the dullest and most reliable of Reggie Chivers's many sons; and there Archer had kissed her through her wedding veil before they went down to the motor which was to carry them to Grace Church--for in a world where all else had reeled on its foundations the "Grace Church wedding" remained an unchanged institution. It was in the library that he and May had always discussed the future of the children: the studies of Dallas and his young brother Bill, Mary's incurable indifference to "accomplishments," and passion for sport and philanthropy, and the vague leanings toward "art" which had finally landed the restless and curious Dallas in the office of a rising New York architect. The young men nowadays were emancipating themselves from the law and business and taking up all sorts of new things. If they were not absorbed in state politics or municipal reform, the chances were that they were going in for Central American archaeology, for architecture or landscape-engineering; taking a keen and learned interest in the prerevolutionary buildings of their own country, studying and adapting Georgian types, and protesting at the meaningless use of the word "Colonial." Nobody nowadays had "Colonial" houses except the millionaire grocers of the suburbs. But above all--sometimes Archer put it above all--it was in that library that the Governor of New York, coming down from Albany one evening to dine and spend the night, had turned to his host, and said, banging his clenched fist on the table and gnashing his eye-glasses: "Hang the professional politician! You're the kind of man the country wants, Archer. If the stable's ever to be cleaned out, men like you have got to lend a hand in the cleaning." "Men like you--" how Archer had glowed at the phrase! How eagerly he had risen up at the call! It was an echo of Ned Winsett's old appeal to roll his sleeves up and get down into the muck; but spoken by a man who set the example of the gesture, and whose summons to follow him was irresistible. Archer, as he looked back, was not sure that men like himself WERE what his country needed, at least in the active service to which Theodore Roosevelt had pointed; in fact, there was reason to think it did not, for after a year in the State Assembly he had not been re-elected, and had dropped back thankfully into obscure	for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..." she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother."<\|quote\|>She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead:</\|quote\|>"That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child,	The Age Of Innocence
"Ask him about Vienna."	Jake Barnes	Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a	to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like	at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda,	us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting.	the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of	about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing	Was another fellow. Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now. Studying music." "How'd you come out?" "Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna." 'My God, Mister Gorton,' "said nigger," 'I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself swinging at me. I never did hit him.'" "Did you get any money?" "No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good." "What became of the nigger?" "Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address." "You probably did." "Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories." "Go on." "Let's eat." We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on." "Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog." "We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink," Bill said. "You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right," Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. "Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orl ans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. "They're going to cut a street through." "They would," Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees were shadows. "It's pretty grand," Bill said. "God, I love to get back." We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with their arms around each other. We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an S bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre Joyeux. Through the window of the Caf Aux Amateurs I saw the long zinc bar. Outside on	now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful."<\|quote\|>"Ask him about Vienna."</\|quote\|>"Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918,	The Sun Also Rises
"That is Jacobson s Yard,"	Mr. Sherlock Holmes	before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a	Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging	best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post,"	wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward. "We have no	and all." "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had a body of police in Jacobson s Yard, and arrested them when they came down." "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him suspicious lie snug for another week." "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their hiding-place," said I. "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward. "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light. We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the gaslight." "They are coming from work in the yard." "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at them. There is	handed over to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial directions as to her rudder." There ain t naught amiss with her rudder, "said the foreman." There she lies, with the red streaks. "At that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his launch." I want her to-night at eight o clock, "said he," eight o clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won t be kept waiting. "They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water s edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all." "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had a body of police in Jacobson s Yard, and arrested them when they came down." "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him suspicious lie snug for another week." "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their hiding-place," said I. "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward. "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light. We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the gaslight." "They are coming from work in the yard." "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at them. There is no _a priori_ probability about it. A strange enigma is man!" "Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested. "Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder." "Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly." "And there is the _Aurora_," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves to have the heels of us!" She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed behind two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up before we saw her. Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the shore, going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked	his companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back before it was broad light. Now, it was past three o clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had time to see what view the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they would make their way under cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged for passages to America or the Colonies." "But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings." "Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in spite of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small, and looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How, then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I could only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or yard, and so be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at a few hours notice." "That seems simple enough." "It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at once in this harmless seaman s rig and inquired at all the yards down the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the sixteenth Jacobson s I learned that the _Aurora_ had been handed over to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial directions as to her rudder." There ain t naught amiss with her rudder, "said the foreman." There she lies, with the red streaks. "At that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his launch." I want her to-night at eight o clock, "said he," eight o clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won t be kept waiting. "They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water s edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all." "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had a body of police in Jacobson s Yard, and arrested them when they came down." "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him suspicious lie snug for another week." "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their hiding-place," said I. "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward. "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light. We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the gaslight." "They are coming from work in the yard." "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at them. There is no _a priori_ probability about it. A strange enigma is man!" "Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested. "Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder." "Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly." "And there is the _Aurora_," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves to have the heels of us!" She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed behind two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up before we saw her. Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the shore, going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked gravely at her and shook his head. "She is very fast," he said. "I doubt if we shall catch her." "We _must_ catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth. "Heap it on, stokers! Make her do all she can! If we burn the boat we must have them!" We were fairly after her now. The furnaces roared, and the powerful engines whizzed and clanked, like a great metallic heart. Her sharp, steep prow cut through the river-water and sent two rolling waves to right and to left of us. With every throb of the engines we sprang and quivered like a living thing. One great yellow lantern in our bows threw a long, flickering funnel of light in front of us. Right ahead a dark blur upon the water showed where the _Aurora_ lay, and the swirl of white foam behind her spoke of the pace at which she was going. We flashed past barges, steamers, merchant-vessels, in and out, behind this one and round the other. Voices hailed us out of the darkness, but still the _Aurora_ thundered on, and still we followed close upon her track. "Pile it on, men, pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into the engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his eager, aquiline face. "Get every pound of steam you can." "I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the _Aurora_. "I am sure of it," said I. "We shall be up with her in a very few minutes." At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug with three barges in tow blundered in between us. It was only by putting our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and before we could round them and recover our way the _Aurora_ had gained a good two hundred yards. She was still, however, well in view, and the murky uncertain twilight was setting into a clear starlit night. Our boilers were strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated and creaked with the fierce energy which was driving us along. We had shot through the Pool, past the West India Docks, down the long Deptford Reach, and up again after rounding the Isle of Dogs. The dull blur in front of us resolved itself now clearly enough into the dainty _Aurora_. Jones turned our search-light upon her, so that we	he was very flush of money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water s edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all." "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should have had a body of police in Jacobson s Yard, and arrested them when they came down." "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him suspicious lie snug for another week." "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their hiding-place," said I. "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best." While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul s. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.<\|quote\|>"That is Jacobson s Yard,"</\|quote\|>said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief." "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward. "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light. We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the gaslight." "They are coming from work in the yard." "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at them. There is no _a priori_ probability about it. A strange enigma is man!" "Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested. "Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder." "Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly." "And there is the _Aurora_," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she	The Sign Of The Four
"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."	Emma	staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte,	Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it	"Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for	am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very	there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine." "If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them." "Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know,	She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her." Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole. "I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine." "If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them." "Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance." "Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require	was received with a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated by her--and, as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side. The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family, the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte--a very elegant looking instrument--not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and explanations on Miss Bates's, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece--entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates's account, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could possibly have ordered it--but now, they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;--of course it must be from Colonel Campbell. "One can suppose nothing else," added Mrs. Cole, "and I was only surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her." Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole. "I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine." "If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them." "Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance." "Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are." "And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very decided." "And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?--A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her." "He did. I was there--one of the party." "Were you really?--Well!--But you observed nothing of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.--If I had been there, I think I should have made some discoveries." "I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught her.--It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durable--indeed I believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again--yet that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries." The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said, "The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon." "And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the Campbells." "No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business." "Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings carry my judgment along	letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her." Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole. "I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."<\|quote\|>"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."</\|quote\|>"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine." "If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them." "Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance." "Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are." "And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very decided." "And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?--A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her." "He did. I was there--one of the party." "Were you really?--Well!--But you observed	Emma
"I wish the wretches could be punished,"	Don Lavington	friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I	poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that."	at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with	the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no	awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire. "Wonder where they'll take us?" said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to	long, bellowing note; the paddles dipped almost as one into the water, and the men burst into a triumphal chorus, as, for a few hundred yards, the great war canoes which they had captured swept with their freight of spoil at a rapid rate southward along the shore. Then the sudden burst of energy ceased, the song broke off, the speed diminished; and the men slowly dipped their paddles in a heavy, drowsy way. Every now and then one of the warriors ceased paddling, or contented himself with going through the motion; but still the great serpent-like vessels glided on, though slowly, while the darkness came on rapidly, and the water flashed as its phosphorescent inhabitants were disturbed. The darkness grew intense, but not for long. Soon a gradual lightening became visible in the east, and suddenly a flash of light glanced along the surface of the sea, as the moon slowly rose to give a weird aspect to the long row of dusky warriors sluggishly urging the great canoes onward. Don and Jem had the good fortune to be together in the largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire. "Wonder where they'll take us?" said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of 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	take a spear apiece, and kill the lot. What do you say?" "The same as you will, if you think, Jem," replied Don. "No." "No, it is, Mas' Don, of course. Englishmen couldn't do such a thing as that." "But only let us have a fair chance at them again, Jem, and I don't think we shall feel very sorry if we slay a few." "Sorry?" said Jem, between his teeth. "I mean a hundred of 'em at least, as soon as we can get away; and get away we will." They sat listening till the horrible feast below was at an end, and everything became so silent that they concluded that the enemy must be asleep, and began to wonder that the prisoners should all crouch together in so apathetic a state. But all at once, when everything seemed most still, and half the prisoners were dozing, there came the heavy trampling of feet; the guards roused up, and in the dim light of the late evening, the bonds which secured the captives' feet were loosened, and, like a herd of cattle, they were driven down from the platform upon which the _pah_ was constructed, and along the slope to the sands, where the canoes rode lightly on the swell. Into these they were forced to climb, some getting in with alacrity, others slowly and painfully; two or three falling helplessly in the water, and then, half drowned, being dragged in over the side. "Not a bit sorry I killed some of 'em," muttered Jem. "They arn't men, Mas' Don, but savage beasts." It did not take long, for there was plenty of room in the little fleet of canoes. The prisoners were divided, some being placed in the canoes with the plunder, and treated as if they were spoil. Others were divided among the long canoes, manned by the enemy, whose own wounded men, even to the worst, did not hesitate to take to a paddle, and fill their places. Some of the children whimpered, but an apathetic state of misery and dejection seemed to have affected even them, while in one or two cases, a blow from a paddle was sufficient to awe the poor little unfortunates into silence. As soon as the last man was in his place, a herculean chief waved his hands; one of his followers raised a great wooden trumpet, and blew a long, bellowing note; the paddles dipped almost as one into the water, and the men burst into a triumphal chorus, as, for a few hundred yards, the great war canoes which they had captured swept with their freight of spoil at a rapid rate southward along the shore. Then the sudden burst of energy ceased, the song broke off, the speed diminished; and the men slowly dipped their paddles in a heavy, drowsy way. Every now and then one of the warriors ceased paddling, or contented himself with going through the motion; but still the great serpent-like vessels glided on, though slowly, while the darkness came on rapidly, and the water flashed as its phosphorescent inhabitants were disturbed. The darkness grew intense, but not for long. Soon a gradual lightening became visible in the east, and suddenly a flash of light glanced along the surface of the sea, as the moon slowly rose to give a weird aspect to the long row of dusky warriors sluggishly urging the great canoes onward. Don and Jem had the good fortune to be together in the largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire. "Wonder where they'll take us?" said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of 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	became visible in the east, and suddenly a flash of light glanced along the surface of the sea, as the moon slowly rose to give a weird aspect to the long row of dusky warriors sluggishly urging the great canoes onward. Don and Jem had the good fortune to be together in the largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat. Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on. "It must be a dream," he said to himself. "I shall awake soon, and--" "What a chance, Mas' Don!" said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake. "Chance? What chance?" said Don, starting. "I don't mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve 'em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas' Don."<\|quote\|>"I wish the wretches could be punished,"</\|quote\|>said Don sadly; "but I see no chance of that." "Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don't know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn't that I don't care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe." "It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem." "Ay, that's so, my lad. I say, Mas' Don, arn't you hungry?" "Yes, I suppose so, Jem. Not hungry; but I feel as if I have had no food. I am too miserable to be hungry." "So am I sometimes when my shoulder burns; at other times I feel as if I could eat wood." They sat in silence as the moon rose higher, and the long lines of paddles in the different boats looked more weird and strange, while in the distance a mountain top that stood above the long black line of trees flashed in the moonlight as if emitting silver fire. "Wonder where they'll take us?" said Jem, at last. "To their _pah_, I suppose," replied Don, dreamily. "I s'pose they'll give us something to eat when we get there, eh?" "I suppose so, Jem. I don't know, and I feel too miserable even to try and think." "Ah," said Jem; "that's how those poor women and the wounded prisoners feel, Mas' Don; but they're only copper-coloured blacks, and we're whites. We can't afford to feel as they do. Look here, my lad, how soon do you think you'll be strong enough to try and escape?" "I don't know, Jem." "I say to-morrow." "Shall you be fit?" Jem was silent for a few minutes. "I'm like you, Mas' Don," he said. "I dunno; but I tell you what, we will not say to-morrow or next day, but make up our minds to go first chance. What do you say to that?" "Anything is better than being in the power of such wretches as these, Jem; so let's do as you say." Jem nodded his head as he sat in the bottom of 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	Don Lavington
I said.	No speaker	drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said.	in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and	him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door	long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood	life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand	hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?" Edna asked. "We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so." "Well," I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's	that where she is?" Cohn turned to me. "Go to hell!" "She was with you. Is that where she is?" "Go to hell!" "I'll make you tell me" "--he stepped forward--" "you damned pimp." I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me up. Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike was pulling at my ears. "I say, you were cold," Mike said. "Where the hell were you?" "Oh, I was around." "You didn't want to mix in it?" "He knocked Mike down, too," Edna said. "He didn't knock me out," Mike said. "I just lay there." "Does this happen every night at your fiestas?" Edna asked. "Wasn't that Mr. Cohn?" "I'm all right," I said. "My head's a little wobbly." There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing around. "Vaya!" said Mike. "Get away. Go on." The waiters moved the people away. "It was quite a thing to watch," Edna said. "He must be a boxer." "He is." "I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big." "I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?" "All right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?" Edna asked. "We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand it any more." He lay there on the bed. "Well," I said, "I'm going to take a bath." "You were the only friend I had, and I loved Brett so." "Well," I said, "so long." "I guess it isn't any use," he said. "I guess it isn't any damn use." "What?" "Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake." "Sure," I said. "It's all right." "I felt so terribly. I've been through such hell, Jake. Now everything's gone. Everything." "Well," I said, "so long. I've got to go." He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood up. "So long, Jake," he said. "You'll shake hands, won't you?" "Sure. Why not?" We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face very well. "Well," I said, "see you in the morning." "I'm going away in the morning." "Oh, yes," I said. I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the room. "Are you all right, Jake?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "I'm all right." I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found it. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went inside and undressed and got into bed. * * * * * I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands going by in the street. I remembered I had promised to take Bill's friend Edna to see the bulls go through the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down-stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. Across the square were the two lines of men in front of the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets to go on sale at seven o'clock. I hurried across the street to the caf . The waiter told me that my friends had been there and gone. "How many were they?" "Two gentlemen and a lady." That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. She had been afraid last night they would pass out. That was why I was to be sure to take her. I drank the coffee and hurried with the other people toward the bull-ring. I was not groggy now. There was only a bad headache. Everything looked sharp and clear, and the town smelt of the early morning. The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to the bull-ring was muddy. There was a crowd all along the fence that led to the ring, and the outside balconies and the top of the bull-ring	said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?" "All right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?" Edna asked. "We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and see Cohn. He's been in a jam, and he's asking for you." "The hell with him." "Go on. Go on up and see him." I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. "What are you looking at me that way for?" "I'm not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. He's in bad shape." "You were drunk a little while ago,"<\|quote\|>I said.</\|quote\|>"I'm drunk now," Bill said. "But you go up and see Cohn. He wants to see you." "All right," I said. It was just a matter of climbing more stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phantom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn's room. The door was shut and I knocked. "Who is it?" "Barnes." "Come in, Jake." I opened the door and went in, and set down my suitcase. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, face down, on the bed in the dark. "Hello, Jake." "Don't call me Jake." I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A deep, hot bath, to lie back in. "Where's the bathroom?" I asked. Cohn was crying. There he was, face down on the bed, crying. He had on a white polo shirt, the kind he'd worn at Princeton. "I'm sorry, Jake. Please forgive me." "Forgive you, hell." "Please forgive me, Jake." I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. "I was crazy. You must see how it was." "Oh, that's all right." "I couldn't stand it about Brett." "You called me a pimp." I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot bath in deep water. "I know. Please don't remember it. I was crazy." "That's all right." He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. "I'm going away in the morning." He was crying without making any noise. "I just couldn't stand it about Brett. I've been through hell, Jake. It's been simply hell. When I met her down here Brett treated me as though I were a perfect stranger. I just couldn't stand it. We lived together at San Sebastian. I	The Sun Also Rises
There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.	No speaker	cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!"	a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course,	law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space,	pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the	of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr.	up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will	are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us." "No," said the other with an immovable simplicity, "the whole town would fight for them. We shall see." While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement. "What is that noise?" he said. "Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose," said the Colonel. "I thought we had got clear of them." "The horses behind us! No," said the Professor, "it is not horses, and it is not behind us." Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage. "I tell you they were his," he repeated, with wild eyes, "and they were full of men in masks!" "Absurd!" said the Colonel angrily. "Dr. Renard would never give them his cars." "He may have been forced," said Ratcliffe quietly. "The whole town is on their side." "You still believe that," asked the Colonel incredulously. "You will all believe it soon," said the other with a hopeless calm. There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly "No, I can't believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town" He was cut short by a bang and a blaze of light, which seemed close to his eyes. As the car sped on it left a floating patch of white smoke behind it, and Syme had heard a shot shriek past his ear. "My God!" said the Colonel, "someone has shot at us." "It need not interrupt conversation," said the gloomy Ratcliffe. "Pray resume your remarks, Colonel. You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town." The staring Colonel was long past minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street. "It is extraordinary," he said, "most extraordinary." "A fastidious person," said Syme, "might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there." "No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat." "I tell you it can't be!" cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the	"No," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "we shall never get there." He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture. "What do you mean?" asked Bull sharply. "I mean that we shall never get there," said the pessimist placidly. "They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude." And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea. The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!"<\|quote\|>There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.</\|quote\|>"What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich."	The Man Who Was Thursday
"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"	Winnie-the-pooh	and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?"	the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking,	The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So	walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song: "How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue! Every little cloud _Always_ sings aloud." ""How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue!" It makes him very proud To be a little cloud." The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So I think I shall come down." "How?" asked you. Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with	got back to the tree. "I was beginning to get anxious. I have discovered that the bees are now definitely Suspicious." "Shall I put my umbrella up?" you said. "Yes, but wait a moment. We must be practical. The important bee to deceive is the Queen Bee. Can you see which is the Queen Bee from down there?" "No." "A pity. Well, now, if you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain,' I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing.... Go!" So, while you walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song: "How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue! Every little cloud _Always_ sings aloud." ""How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue!" It makes him very proud To be a little cloud." The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So I think I shall come down." "How?" asked you. Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?" "Of course I have," you said. "But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon," you said. "But if you _don't_," said Pooh, "I shall have to let go, and that would spoil _me_." When he put it like this, you saw how it was, and you aimed very carefully at the balloon, and fired. "_Ow!_" said Pooh. "Did I miss?" you asked. "You didn't exactly _miss_," said Pooh, "but you missed the _balloon_." "I'm so sorry," you said, and you fired again, and this time you hit the balloon, and the	no wind to blow him nearer to the tree, so there he stayed. He could see the honey, he could smell the honey, but he couldn't quite reach the honey. After a little while he called down to you. "Christopher Robin!" he said in a loud whisper. "Hallo!" "I think the bees _suspect_ something!" "What sort of thing?" "I don't know. But something tells me that they're _suspicious_!" "Perhaps they think that you're after their honey." "It may be that. You never can tell with bees." There was another little silence, and then he called down to you again. "Christopher Robin!" "Yes?" "Have you an umbrella in your house?" "I think so." "I wish you would bring it out here, and walk up and down with it, and look up at me every now and then, and say 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain.' I think, if you did that, it would help the deception which we are practising on these bees." Well, you laughed to yourself, "Silly old Bear!" but you didn't say it aloud because you were so fond of him, and you went home for your umbrella. "Oh, there you are!" called down Winnie-the-Pooh, as soon as you got back to the tree. "I was beginning to get anxious. I have discovered that the bees are now definitely Suspicious." "Shall I put my umbrella up?" you said. "Yes, but wait a moment. We must be practical. The important bee to deceive is the Queen Bee. Can you see which is the Queen Bee from down there?" "No." "A pity. Well, now, if you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain,' I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing.... Go!" So, while you walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song: "How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue! Every little cloud _Always_ sings aloud." ""How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue!" It makes him very proud To be a little cloud." The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So I think I shall come down." "How?" asked you. Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?" "Of course I have," you said. "But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon," you said. "But if you _don't_," said Pooh, "I shall have to let go, and that would spoil _me_." When he put it like this, you saw how it was, and you aimed very carefully at the balloon, and fired. "_Ow!_" said Pooh. "Did I miss?" you asked. "You didn't exactly _miss_," said Pooh, "but you missed the _balloon_." "I'm so sorry," you said, and you fired again, and this time you hit the balloon, and the air came slowly out, and Winnie-the-Pooh floated down to the ground. But his arms were so stiff from holding on to the string of the balloon all that time that they stayed up straight in the air for more than a week, and whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off. And I think--but I am not sure--that _that_ is why he was always called Pooh. * * * * * "Is that the end of the story?" asked Christopher Robin. "That's the end of that one. There are others." "About Pooh and Me?" "And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you. Don't you remember?" "I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget." "That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump----" "They didn't catch it, did they?" "No." "Pooh couldn't, because he hasn't any brain. Did _I_ catch it?" "Well, that comes into the story." Christopher Robin nodded. "I do remember," he said, "only Pooh doesn't very well, so that's why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just a remembering." "That's just how _I_ feel," I	honey with balloons!" "_I_ do," said Pooh. Well, it just happened that you had been to a party the day before at the house of your friend Piglet, and you had balloons at the party. You had had a big green balloon; and one of Rabbit's relations had had a big blue one, and had left it behind, being really too young to go to a party at all; and so you had brought the green one _and_ the blue one home with you. "Which one would you like?" you asked Pooh. He put his head between his paws and thought very carefully. "It's like this," he said. "When you go after honey with a balloon, the great thing is not to let the bees know you're coming. Now, if you have a green balloon, they might think you were only part of the tree, and not notice you, and, if you have a blue balloon, they might think you were only part of the sky, and not notice you, and the question is: Which is most likely?" "Wouldn't they notice _you_ underneath the balloon?" you asked. "They might or they might not," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "You never can tell with bees." He thought for a moment and said: "I shall try to look like a small black cloud. That will deceive them." "Then you had better have the blue balloon," you said; and so it was decided. Well, you both went out with the blue balloon, and you took your gun with you, just in case, as you always did, and Winnie-the-Pooh went to a very muddy place that he knew of, and rolled and rolled until he was black all over; and then, when the balloon was blown up as big as big, and you and Pooh were both holding on to the string, you let go suddenly, and Pooh Bear floated gracefully up into the sky, and stayed there--level with the top of the tree and about twenty feet away from it. "Hooray!" you shouted. "Isn't that fine?" shouted Winnie-the-Pooh down to you. "What do I look like?" "You look like a Bear holding on to a balloon," you said. "Not," said Pooh anxiously, "--not like a small black cloud in a blue sky?" "Not very much." "Ah, well, perhaps from up here it looks different. And, as I say, you never can tell with bees." There was no wind to blow him nearer to the tree, so there he stayed. He could see the honey, he could smell the honey, but he couldn't quite reach the honey. After a little while he called down to you. "Christopher Robin!" he said in a loud whisper. "Hallo!" "I think the bees _suspect_ something!" "What sort of thing?" "I don't know. But something tells me that they're _suspicious_!" "Perhaps they think that you're after their honey." "It may be that. You never can tell with bees." There was another little silence, and then he called down to you again. "Christopher Robin!" "Yes?" "Have you an umbrella in your house?" "I think so." "I wish you would bring it out here, and walk up and down with it, and look up at me every now and then, and say 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain.' I think, if you did that, it would help the deception which we are practising on these bees." Well, you laughed to yourself, "Silly old Bear!" but you didn't say it aloud because you were so fond of him, and you went home for your umbrella. "Oh, there you are!" called down Winnie-the-Pooh, as soon as you got back to the tree. "I was beginning to get anxious. I have discovered that the bees are now definitely Suspicious." "Shall I put my umbrella up?" you said. "Yes, but wait a moment. We must be practical. The important bee to deceive is the Queen Bee. Can you see which is the Queen Bee from down there?" "No." "A pity. Well, now, if you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain,' I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing.... Go!" So, while you walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song: "How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue! Every little cloud _Always_ sings aloud." ""How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue!" It makes him very proud To be a little cloud." The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So I think I shall come down." "How?" asked you. Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?" "Of course I have," you said. "But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon," you said. "But if you _don't_," said Pooh, "I shall have to let go, and that would spoil _me_." When he put it like this, you saw how it was, and you aimed very carefully at the balloon, and fired. "_Ow!_" said Pooh. "Did I miss?" you asked. "You didn't exactly _miss_," said Pooh, "but you missed the _balloon_." "I'm so sorry," you said, and you fired again, and this time you hit the balloon, and the air came slowly out, and Winnie-the-Pooh floated down to the ground. But his arms were so stiff from holding on to the string of the balloon all that time that they stayed up straight in the air for more than a week, and whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off. And I think--but I am not sure--that _that_ is why he was always called Pooh. * * * * * "Is that the end of the story?" asked Christopher Robin. "That's the end of that one. There are others." "About Pooh and Me?" "And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you. Don't you remember?" "I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget." "That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump----" "They didn't catch it, did they?" "No." "Pooh couldn't, because he hasn't any brain. Did _I_ catch it?" "Well, that comes into the story." Christopher Robin nodded. "I do remember," he said, "only Pooh doesn't very well, so that's why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just a remembering." "That's just how _I_ feel," I said. Christopher Robin gave a deep sigh, picked his Bear up by the leg, and walked off to the door, trailing Pooh behind him. At the door he turned and said, "Coming to see me have my bath?" "I might," I said. "I didn't hurt him when I shot him, did I?" "Not a bit." He nodded and went out, and in a moment I heard Winnie-the-Pooh--_bump, bump, bump_--going up the stairs behind him. CHAPTER II IN WHICH POOH GOES VISITING AND GETS INTO A TIGHT PLACE Edward Bear, known to his friends as Winnie-the-Pooh, or Pooh for short, was walking through the forest one day, humming proudly to himself. He had made up a little hum that very morning, as he was doing his Stoutness Exercises in front of the glass: _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la_, as he stretched up as high as he could go, and then _Tra-la-la, tra-la--oh, help!--la_, as he tried to reach his toes. After breakfast he had said it over and over to himself until he had learnt it off by heart, and now he was humming it right through, properly. It went like this: "_Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking along gaily, wondering what everybody else was doing, and what it felt like, being somebody else, when suddenly he came to a sandy bank, and in the bank was a large hole. "Aha!" said Pooh. (_Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._) "If I know anything about anything, that hole means Rabbit," he said, "and Rabbit means Company," he said, "and Company means Food and Listening-to-Me-Humming and such like. _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" So he bent down, put his head into the hole, and called out: "Is anybody at home?" There was a sudden scuffling noise from inside the hole, and then silence. "What I said was, 'Is anybody at home?'" called out Pooh very loudly. "No!" said a voice; and then added, "You needn't shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time." "Bother!" said Pooh. "Isn't there anybody here at all?" "Nobody." Winnie-the-Pooh took his head out of the hole, and thought for a little, and he thought to himself, "There must be somebody there, because somebody must have _said_ 'Nobody.'" So he put his head back in the hole, and said: "Hallo, Rabbit, isn't that you?" "No," said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this	may be that. You never can tell with bees." There was another little silence, and then he called down to you again. "Christopher Robin!" "Yes?" "Have you an umbrella in your house?" "I think so." "I wish you would bring it out here, and walk up and down with it, and look up at me every now and then, and say 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain.' I think, if you did that, it would help the deception which we are practising on these bees." Well, you laughed to yourself, "Silly old Bear!" but you didn't say it aloud because you were so fond of him, and you went home for your umbrella. "Oh, there you are!" called down Winnie-the-Pooh, as soon as you got back to the tree. "I was beginning to get anxious. I have discovered that the bees are now definitely Suspicious." "Shall I put my umbrella up?" you said. "Yes, but wait a moment. We must be practical. The important bee to deceive is the Queen Bee. Can you see which is the Queen Bee from down there?" "No." "A pity. Well, now, if you walk up and down with your umbrella, saying, 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain,' I shall do what I can by singing a little Cloud Song, such as a cloud might sing.... Go!" So, while you walked up and down and wondered if it would rain, Winnie-the-Pooh sang this song: "How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue! Every little cloud _Always_ sings aloud." ""How sweet to be a Cloud Floating in the Blue!" It makes him very proud To be a little cloud." The bees were still buzzing as suspiciously as ever. Some of them, indeed, left their nests and flew all round the cloud as it began the second verse of this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.<\|quote\|>"Christopher--_ow!_--Robin,"</\|quote\|>called out the cloud. "Yes?" "I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. _These are the wrong sort of bees._" "Are they?" "Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?" "Would they?" "Yes. So I think I shall come down." "How?" asked you. Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall--_bump_--and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said: "Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?" "Of course I have," you said. "But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon," you said. "But if you _don't_," said Pooh, "I shall have to let go, and that would spoil _me_." When he put it like this, you saw how it was, and you aimed very carefully at the balloon, and fired. "_Ow!_" said Pooh. "Did I miss?" you asked. "You didn't exactly _miss_," said Pooh, "but you missed the _balloon_." "I'm so sorry," you said, and you fired again, and this time you hit the balloon, and the air came slowly out, and Winnie-the-Pooh floated down to the ground. But his arms were so stiff from holding on to the string of the balloon all that time that they stayed up straight in the air for more than a week, and whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off. And I think--but I am not sure--that _that_ is why he was always called Pooh. * * * * * "Is that the end of the story?" asked Christopher Robin. "That's the end of that one. There are others." "About Pooh and Me?" "And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you. Don't you remember?" "I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget." "That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump----" "They didn't catch it, did they?" "No." "Pooh couldn't, because he hasn't any brain. Did _I_ catch it?" "Well, that comes into the story." Christopher Robin nodded. "I do remember," he said, "only Pooh doesn't very well, so that's why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just a remembering." "That's just how _I_ feel," I said. Christopher Robin gave a deep sigh, picked his Bear up by the leg, and walked off to the door, trailing Pooh behind him. At the door he turned and said, "Coming to see me have my bath?" "I might," I said. "I didn't hurt him	Winnie The Pooh
Margaret whispered.	No speaker	to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said	the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do.	call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the	share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she	and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." "Henry, I am awfully sorry." "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The	a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." "Henry, I am awfully sorry." "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don t you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen s plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man s past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand. She knew of life s seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied. "So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself	said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing. "They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he s qualified." "I ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn t be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." "Henry, I am awfully sorry." "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don t you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen s plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man s past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand. She knew of life s seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied. "So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself from saying more. "So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the hall. "We were saying--Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my point being--" Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene. "No, let me do that," said Henry, following. "Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!" The Colonel said gallantly: "I don t expect there s much to forgive." He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the branch-line. Still chattering, still thanking their host and patronising their future hostess, the guests were borne away. Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been your mistress?" "You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied. "When, please?" "Why?" "When, please?" "Ten years ago." She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy; it was Mrs. Wilcox s. CHAPTER XXVII Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of eight pounds in making some people ill and others angry. Now that the wave of excitement was ebbing, and had left her, Mr. Bast, and Mrs. Bast stranded for the night in a Shropshire hotel, she asked herself what forces had made the wave flow. At all events, no harm was done. Margaret would play the game properly now, and though Helen disapproved of her sister s methods, she knew that the Basts would benefit by them in the long-run. "Mr. Wilcox is so illogical," she explained to Leonard, who had put his wife to bed, and was sitting with her in the empty coffee-room. "If we told him it was his duty to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The fact is, he isn t properly educated. I don t want to set you against him, but you ll find him a trial." "I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel," was all that Leonard felt equal to. "I believe in personal responsibility. Don t you? And in personal everything. I hate--I suppose I oughtn t to say that--but the Wilcoxes are on the wrong tack surely. Or perhaps it isn t their fault. Perhaps the little thing that says I is missing out of the middle of their heads, and then it s a waste	thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired,"<\|quote\|>Margaret whispered.</\|quote\|>"She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." "Henry, I am awfully sorry." "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don t you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen s plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man s past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand.	Howards End
"Pretend indeed!"	Mrs. Sparsit	what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am	a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing,	have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's	I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most	little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or	the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the	first, because all gifts have an inevitable tendency to pauperise the recipient, and secondly, because his only reasonable transaction in that commodity would have been to buy it for as little as he could possibly give, and sell it for as much as he could possibly get; it having been clearly ascertained by philosophers that in this is comprised the whole duty of man not a part of man's duty, but the whole. "Pretty fair, ma'am. With the usual exception, ma'am," repeated Bitzer. "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head over her tea-cup, and taking a long gulp. "Mr. Thomas, ma'am, I doubt Mr. Thomas very much, ma'am, I don't like his ways at all." "Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very impressive manner, "do you recollect my having said anything to you respecting names?" "I beg your pardon, ma'am. It's quite true that you did object to names being used, and they're always best avoided." "Please to remember that I have a charge here," said Mrs. Sparsit, with her air of state. "I hold a trust here, Bitzer, under Mr. Bounderby. However improbable both Mr. Bounderby and myself might have deemed it years ago, that he would ever become my patron, making me an annual compliment, I cannot but regard him in that light. From Mr. Bounderby I have received every acknowledgment of my social station, and every recognition of my family descent, that I could possibly expect. More, far more. Therefore, to my patron I will be scrupulously true. And I do not consider, I will not consider, I cannot consider," said Mrs. Sparsit, with a most extensive stock on hand of honour and morality, "that I _should_ be scrupulously true, if I allowed names to be mentioned under this roof, that are unfortunately most unfortunately no doubt of that connected with his." Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again begged pardon. "No, Bitzer," continued Mrs. Sparsit, "say an individual, and I will hear you; say Mr. Thomas, and you must excuse me." "With the usual exception, ma'am," said Bitzer, trying back, "of an individual." "Ah h!" Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the point where it had been interrupted. "An individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, "has never been what he ought to have been, since he first came into the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated, "A Powler." "Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed	h!" Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the point where it had been interrupted. "An individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, "has never been what he ought to have been, since he first came into the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want."<\|quote\|>"Pretend indeed!"</\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say," "While my hat covers my family," "or" "while my bonnet covers my family," "as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed."" "To be sure," assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical	Hard Times
said Matthew with unusual vim.	No speaker	liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style	wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's	she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty.	at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see	go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet." Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. "A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger," she said severely. "Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should." "I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if you'll only keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an interesting little thing." "It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough to put your oar in." "There, there, Marilla,	stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?" "I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously. During Marilla's speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope; her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. "Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?" she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. "Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did?" "I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't," said Marilla crossly. "Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn't decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do." "I'd rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet." Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. "A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger," she said severely. "Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should." "I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if you'll only keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an interesting little thing." "It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough to put your oar in." "There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way," said Matthew reassuringly. "Only be as good and kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sort you can do anything with if you only get her to love you." Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pails. "I won't tell her tonight that she can stay," she reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. "She'd be so excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it. Did you ever suppose you'd see the day when you'd be adopting an orphan girl? It's surprising enough; but not so surprising as that Matthew should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed to have such a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on the experiment and goodness only knows what will come of it." CHAPTER VII. Anne Says Her Prayers \|WHEN Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly: "Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off.	or spiritual, into consideration and settling it out of hand. "It seems there's been a mistake about this little girl, Mrs. Blewett," she said. "I was under the impression that Mr. and Miss Cuthbert wanted a little girl to adopt. I was certainly told so. But it seems it was a boy they wanted. So if you're still of the same mind you were yesterday, I think she'll be just the thing for you." Mrs. Blewett darted her eyes over Anne from head to foot. "How old are you and what's your name?" she demanded. "Anne Shirley," faltered the shrinking child, not daring to make any stipulations regarding the spelling thereof, "and I'm eleven years old." "Humph! You don't look as if there was much to you. But you're wiry. I don't know but the wiry ones are the best after all. Well, if I take you you'll have to be a good girl, you know--good and smart and respectful. I'll expect you to earn your keep, and no mistake about that. Yes, I suppose I might as well take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The baby's awful fractious, and I'm clean worn out attending to him. If you like I can take her right home now." Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight of the child's pale face with its look of mute misery--the misery of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more caught in the trap from which it had escaped. Marilla felt an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. More-over, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, "highstrung" child over to such a woman! No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that! "Well, I don't know," she said slowly. "I didn't say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn't keep her. In fact I may say that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn't to decide on anything without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her we'll bring or send her over to you tomorrow night. If we don't you may know that she is going to stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?" "I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously. During Marilla's speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope; her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. "Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?" she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. "Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did?" "I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't," said Marilla crossly. "Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn't decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do." "I'd rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet." Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. "A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger," she said severely. "Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should." "I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if you'll only keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an interesting little thing." "It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough to put your oar in." "There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way," said Matthew reassuringly. "Only be as good and kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sort you can do anything with if you only get her to love you." Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pails. "I won't tell her tonight that she can stay," she reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. "She'd be so excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it. Did you ever suppose you'd see the day when you'd be adopting an orphan girl? It's surprising enough; but not so surprising as that Matthew should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed to have such a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on the experiment and goodness only knows what will come of it." CHAPTER VII. Anne Says Her Prayers \|WHEN Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly: "Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I can't allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven't any use at all for little girls who aren't neat." "I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn't think about my clothes at all," said Anne. "I'll fold them nicely tonight. They always made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though, I'd forget, I'd be in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things." "You'll have to remember a little better if you stay here," admonished Marilla. "There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and get into bed." "I never say any prayers," announced Anne. Marilla looked horrified astonishment. "Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Anne?" "?God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,'" responded Anne promptly and glibly. Marilla looked rather relieved. "So you do know something then, thank goodness! You're not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?" "Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words." ?Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.' "Isn't that grand? It has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it?" "We're not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little girl." "You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I've never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at	that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. More-over, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, "highstrung" child over to such a woman! No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that! "Well, I don't know," she said slowly. "I didn't say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn't keep her. In fact I may say that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn't to decide on anything without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her we'll bring or send her over to you tomorrow night. If we don't you may know that she is going to stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?" "I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously. During Marilla's speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope; her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. "Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?" she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. "Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did?" "I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't," said Marilla crossly. "Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn't decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do." "I'd rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet." Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. "A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger," she said severely. "Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should." "I'll try to do and be anything you want me, if you'll only keep me," said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman. When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought back Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him Anne's history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. "I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,"<\|quote\|>said Matthew with unusual vim.</\|quote\|>"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted Marilla, "but it's that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem to want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an interesting little thing." "It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough to put your oar in." "There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way," said Matthew reassuringly. "Only be as good and kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sort you can do anything with if you only get her to love you." Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pails. "I won't tell her tonight that she can stay," she reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. "She'd be so excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it. Did you ever	Anne Of Green Gables
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”	Daisy	her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker	her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”	regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling	Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned	telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me. “I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?” “That’s why I came over tonight.” “Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—” “Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. “This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began. “Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.” “Is something happening?” I inquired innocently. “You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.” “I don’t.” “Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.” “Got some woman?” I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. “She might have the decency	is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. “This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?” There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me. “I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?” “That’s why I came over tonight.” “Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—” “Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. “This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began. “Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.” “Is something happening?” I inquired innocently. “You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.” “I don’t.” “Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.” “Got some woman?” I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. “She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?” Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. “It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?” “Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.” The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were	rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. “This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?” There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me. “I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?” “That’s why I came over tonight.” “Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—” “Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. “This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began. “Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.” “Is something happening?” I inquired innocently. “You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.” “I don’t.” “Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.” “Got some woman?” I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. “She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?” Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. “It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?” “Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.” The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl. “We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.” “I wasn’t back from the war.” “That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.” Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter. “I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.” “Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?” “Very much.” “It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’ “You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything	this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. “This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?” There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me. “I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?” “That’s why I came over tonight.” “Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—” “Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.<\|quote\|>“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?”</\|quote\|>She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?” This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. “This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began. “Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.” “Is something happening?” I inquired innocently. “You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.” “I don’t.” “Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.” “Got some woman?” I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. “She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?” Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. “It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?” “Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.” The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. Daisy took her face in her	The Great Gatsby
said Ralph.	No speaker	to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on	destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to	doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs	white house and the tremulous old lady rising from behind her tea-table to greet her with faltering words about "my son s friends," and was on the point of asking Ralph to tell her what she might expect, when he jerked open one of the infinite number of identical wooden doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs and draperies, and to hear a hum, or rather a babble, of voices talking each other down, from the sound of them. The rigidity of extreme shyness came over her. She kept as far behind Denham as she could, and walked stiffly after him into a room blazing with unshaded	direction of the Tube station. Ignorant of the way, she resigned herself entirely to him, and found his silence a convenient cover beneath which to continue her anger with Rodney. When they stepped out of the train into the still grayer gloom of Highgate, she wondered, for the first time, where he was taking her. Had he a family, or did he live alone in rooms? On the whole she was inclined to believe that he was the only son of an aged, and possibly invalid, mother. She sketched lightly, upon the blank vista down which they walked, the little white house and the tremulous old lady rising from behind her tea-table to greet her with faltering words about "my son s friends," and was on the point of asking Ralph to tell her what she might expect, when he jerked open one of the infinite number of identical wooden doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs and draperies, and to hear a hum, or rather a babble, of voices talking each other down, from the sound of them. The rigidity of extreme shyness came over her. She kept as far behind Denham as she could, and walked stiffly after him into a room blazing with unshaded lights, which fell upon a number of people, of different ages, sitting round a large dining-room table untidily strewn with food, and unflinchingly lit up by incandescent gas. Ralph walked straight to the far end of the table. "Mother, this is Miss Hilbery," he said. A large elderly lady, bent over an unsatisfactory spirit-lamp, looked up with a little frown, and observed: "I beg your pardon. I thought you were one of my own girls. Dorothy," she continued on the same breath, to catch the servant before she left the room, "we shall want some more methylated spirits unless the	and more merciless towards her. By such courageous measures any one, he thought, could end the absurd passions which were the cause of so much pain and waste. He could foresee a time when his experiences, his discovery, and his triumph were made available for younger brothers who found themselves in the same predicament. He looked at his watch, and remarked that the gardens would soon be closed. "Anyhow," he added, "I think we ve seen enough for one afternoon. Where have the others got to?" He looked over his shoulder, and, seeing no trace of them, remarked at once: "We d better be independent of them. The best plan will be for you to come back to tea with me." "Why shouldn t you come with me?" she asked. "Because we re next door to Highgate here," he replied promptly. She assented, having very little notion whether Highgate was next door to Regent s Park or not. She was only glad to put off her return to the family tea-table in Chelsea for an hour or two. They proceeded with dogged determination through the winding roads of Regent s Park, and the Sunday-stricken streets of the neighborhood, in the direction of the Tube station. Ignorant of the way, she resigned herself entirely to him, and found his silence a convenient cover beneath which to continue her anger with Rodney. When they stepped out of the train into the still grayer gloom of Highgate, she wondered, for the first time, where he was taking her. Had he a family, or did he live alone in rooms? On the whole she was inclined to believe that he was the only son of an aged, and possibly invalid, mother. She sketched lightly, upon the blank vista down which they walked, the little white house and the tremulous old lady rising from behind her tea-table to greet her with faltering words about "my son s friends," and was on the point of asking Ralph to tell her what she might expect, when he jerked open one of the infinite number of identical wooden doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs and draperies, and to hear a hum, or rather a babble, of voices talking each other down, from the sound of them. The rigidity of extreme shyness came over her. She kept as far behind Denham as she could, and walked stiffly after him into a room blazing with unshaded lights, which fell upon a number of people, of different ages, sitting round a large dining-room table untidily strewn with food, and unflinchingly lit up by incandescent gas. Ralph walked straight to the far end of the table. "Mother, this is Miss Hilbery," he said. A large elderly lady, bent over an unsatisfactory spirit-lamp, looked up with a little frown, and observed: "I beg your pardon. I thought you were one of my own girls. Dorothy," she continued on the same breath, to catch the servant before she left the room, "we shall want some more methylated spirits unless the lamp itself is out of order. If one of you could invent a good spirit-lamp" she sighed, looking generally down the table, and then began seeking among the china before her for two clean cups for the new-comers. The unsparing light revealed more ugliness than Katharine had seen in one room for a very long time. It was the ugliness of enormous folds of brown material, looped and festooned, of plush curtains, from which depended balls and fringes, partially concealing bookshelves swollen with black school-texts. Her eye was arrested by crossed scabbards of fretted wood upon the dull green wall, and wherever there was a high flat eminence, some fern waved from a pot of crinkled china, or a bronze horse reared so high that the stump of a tree had to sustain his forequarters. The waters of family life seemed to rise and close over her head, and she munched in silence. At length Mrs. Denham looked up from her teacups and remarked: "You see, Miss Hilbery, my children all come in at different hours and want different things. (The tray should go up if you ve done, Johnnie.) My boy Charles is in bed with a cold. What	it s true. You never see what any one feels," she said. "You think of no one but yourself." "That is not true," said William. By his determined rattling he had now collected the animated attention of some half-dozen apes. Either to propitiate them, or to show his consideration for their feelings, he proceeded to offer them the apple which he held. The sight, unfortunately, was so comically apt in its illustration of the picture in her mind, the ruse was so transparent, that Katharine was seized with laughter. She laughed uncontrollably. William flushed red. No display of anger could have hurt his feelings more profoundly. It was not only that she was laughing at him; the detachment of the sound was horrible. "I don t know what you re laughing at," he muttered, and, turning, found that the other couple had rejoined them. As if the matter had been privately agreed upon, the couples separated once more, Katharine and Denham passing out of the house without more than a perfunctory glance round them. Denham obeyed what seemed to be Katharine s wish in thus making haste. Some change had come over her. He connected it with her laughter, and her few words in private with Rodney; he felt that she had become unfriendly to him. She talked, but her remarks were indifferent, and when he spoke her attention seemed to wander. This change of mood was at first extremely disagreeable to him; but soon he found it salutary. The pale drizzling atmosphere of the day affected him, also. The charm, the insidious magic in which he had luxuriated, were suddenly gone; his feeling had become one of friendly respect, and to his great pleasure he found himself thinking spontaneously of the relief of finding himself alone in his room that night. In his surprise at the suddenness of the change, and at the extent of his freedom, he bethought him of a daring plan, by which the ghost of Katharine could be more effectually exorcised than by mere abstinence. He would ask her to come home with him to tea. He would force her through the mill of family life; he would place her in a light unsparing and revealing. His family would find nothing to admire in her, and she, he felt certain, would despise them all, and this, too, would help him. He felt himself becoming more and more merciless towards her. By such courageous measures any one, he thought, could end the absurd passions which were the cause of so much pain and waste. He could foresee a time when his experiences, his discovery, and his triumph were made available for younger brothers who found themselves in the same predicament. He looked at his watch, and remarked that the gardens would soon be closed. "Anyhow," he added, "I think we ve seen enough for one afternoon. Where have the others got to?" He looked over his shoulder, and, seeing no trace of them, remarked at once: "We d better be independent of them. The best plan will be for you to come back to tea with me." "Why shouldn t you come with me?" she asked. "Because we re next door to Highgate here," he replied promptly. She assented, having very little notion whether Highgate was next door to Regent s Park or not. She was only glad to put off her return to the family tea-table in Chelsea for an hour or two. They proceeded with dogged determination through the winding roads of Regent s Park, and the Sunday-stricken streets of the neighborhood, in the direction of the Tube station. Ignorant of the way, she resigned herself entirely to him, and found his silence a convenient cover beneath which to continue her anger with Rodney. When they stepped out of the train into the still grayer gloom of Highgate, she wondered, for the first time, where he was taking her. Had he a family, or did he live alone in rooms? On the whole she was inclined to believe that he was the only son of an aged, and possibly invalid, mother. She sketched lightly, upon the blank vista down which they walked, the little white house and the tremulous old lady rising from behind her tea-table to greet her with faltering words about "my son s friends," and was on the point of asking Ralph to tell her what she might expect, when he jerked open one of the infinite number of identical wooden doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs and draperies, and to hear a hum, or rather a babble, of voices talking each other down, from the sound of them. The rigidity of extreme shyness came over her. She kept as far behind Denham as she could, and walked stiffly after him into a room blazing with unshaded lights, which fell upon a number of people, of different ages, sitting round a large dining-room table untidily strewn with food, and unflinchingly lit up by incandescent gas. Ralph walked straight to the far end of the table. "Mother, this is Miss Hilbery," he said. A large elderly lady, bent over an unsatisfactory spirit-lamp, looked up with a little frown, and observed: "I beg your pardon. I thought you were one of my own girls. Dorothy," she continued on the same breath, to catch the servant before she left the room, "we shall want some more methylated spirits unless the lamp itself is out of order. If one of you could invent a good spirit-lamp" she sighed, looking generally down the table, and then began seeking among the china before her for two clean cups for the new-comers. The unsparing light revealed more ugliness than Katharine had seen in one room for a very long time. It was the ugliness of enormous folds of brown material, looped and festooned, of plush curtains, from which depended balls and fringes, partially concealing bookshelves swollen with black school-texts. Her eye was arrested by crossed scabbards of fretted wood upon the dull green wall, and wherever there was a high flat eminence, some fern waved from a pot of crinkled china, or a bronze horse reared so high that the stump of a tree had to sustain his forequarters. The waters of family life seemed to rise and close over her head, and she munched in silence. At length Mrs. Denham looked up from her teacups and remarked: "You see, Miss Hilbery, my children all come in at different hours and want different things. (The tray should go up if you ve done, Johnnie.) My boy Charles is in bed with a cold. What else can you expect? standing in the wet playing football. We did try drawing-room tea, but it didn t do." A boy of sixteen, who appeared to be Johnnie, grumbled derisively both at the notion of drawing-room tea and at the necessity of carrying a tray up to his brother. But he took himself off, being enjoined by his mother to mind what he was doing, and shut the door after him. "It s much nicer like this," said Katharine, applying herself with determination to the dissection of her cake; they had given her too large a slice. She knew that Mrs. Denham suspected her of critical comparisons. She knew that she was making poor progress with her cake. Mrs. Denham had looked at her sufficiently often to make it clear to Katharine that she was asking who this young woman was, and why Ralph had brought her to tea with them. There was an obvious reason, which Mrs. Denham had probably reached by this time. Outwardly, she was behaving with rather rusty and laborious civility. She was making conversation about the amenities of Highgate, its development and situation. "When I first married," she said, "Highgate was quite separate from London, Miss Hilbery, and this house, though you wouldn t believe it, had a view of apple orchards. That was before the Middletons built their house in front of us." "It must be a great advantage to live at the top of a hill," said Katharine. Mrs. Denham agreed effusively, as if her opinion of Katharine s sense had risen. "Yes, indeed, we find it very healthy," she said, and she went on, as people who live in the suburbs so often do, to prove that it was healthier, more convenient, and less spoilt than any suburb round London. She spoke with such emphasis that it was quite obvious that she expressed unpopular views, and that her children disagreed with her. "The ceiling s fallen down in the pantry again," said Hester, a girl of eighteen, abruptly. "The whole house will be down one of these days," James muttered. "Nonsense," said Mrs. Denham. "It s only a little bit of plaster I don t see how any house could be expected to stand the wear and tear you give it." Here some family joke exploded, which Katharine could not follow. Even Mrs. Denham laughed against her will. "Miss Hilbery s	He would force her through the mill of family life; he would place her in a light unsparing and revealing. His family would find nothing to admire in her, and she, he felt certain, would despise them all, and this, too, would help him. He felt himself becoming more and more merciless towards her. By such courageous measures any one, he thought, could end the absurd passions which were the cause of so much pain and waste. He could foresee a time when his experiences, his discovery, and his triumph were made available for younger brothers who found themselves in the same predicament. He looked at his watch, and remarked that the gardens would soon be closed. "Anyhow," he added, "I think we ve seen enough for one afternoon. Where have the others got to?" He looked over his shoulder, and, seeing no trace of them, remarked at once: "We d better be independent of them. The best plan will be for you to come back to tea with me." "Why shouldn t you come with me?" she asked. "Because we re next door to Highgate here," he replied promptly. She assented, having very little notion whether Highgate was next door to Regent s Park or not. She was only glad to put off her return to the family tea-table in Chelsea for an hour or two. They proceeded with dogged determination through the winding roads of Regent s Park, and the Sunday-stricken streets of the neighborhood, in the direction of the Tube station. Ignorant of the way, she resigned herself entirely to him, and found his silence a convenient cover beneath which to continue her anger with Rodney. When they stepped out of the train into the still grayer gloom of Highgate, she wondered, for the first time, where he was taking her. Had he a family, or did he live alone in rooms? On the whole she was inclined to believe that he was the only son of an aged, and possibly invalid, mother. She sketched lightly, upon the blank vista down which they walked, the little white house and the tremulous old lady rising from behind her tea-table to greet her with faltering words about "my son s friends," and was on the point of asking Ralph to tell her what she might expect, when he jerked open one of the infinite number of identical wooden doors, and led her up a tiled path to a porch in the Alpine style of architecture. As they listened to the shaking of the bell in the basement, she could summon no vision to replace the one so rudely destroyed. "I must warn you to expect a family party,"<\|quote\|>said Ralph.</\|quote\|>"They re mostly in on Sundays. We can go to my room afterwards." "Have you many brothers and sisters?" she asked, without concealing her dismay. "Six or seven," he replied grimly, as the door opened. While Ralph took off his coat, she had time to notice the ferns and photographs and draperies, and to hear a hum, or rather a babble, of voices talking each other down, from the sound of them. The rigidity of extreme shyness came over her. She kept as far behind Denham as she could, and walked stiffly after him into a room blazing with unshaded lights, which fell upon a number of people, of different ages, sitting round a large dining-room table untidily strewn with food, and unflinchingly lit up by incandescent gas. Ralph walked straight to the far end of the table. "Mother, this is Miss Hilbery," he said. A large elderly lady, bent over an unsatisfactory spirit-lamp, looked up with a little frown, and observed: "I beg your pardon. I thought you were one of my own girls. Dorothy," she continued on the same breath, to catch the servant before she left the room, "we shall want some more methylated spirits unless the lamp itself is out of order. If one of you could invent a good spirit-lamp" she sighed, looking generally down the table, and then began seeking among the china before her for two clean cups for the new-comers. The unsparing light revealed more ugliness than Katharine had seen in one room for a very long time. It was the ugliness of enormous folds of brown material, looped and festooned, of plush curtains, from which depended balls and fringes, partially concealing bookshelves swollen with black school-texts. Her eye was arrested by crossed scabbards of fretted wood upon the dull	Night And Day
Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.	No speaker	the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't	us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights	he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash	bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed	"Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much	below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that,	sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service." By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No, Jem; she's somewhere about." "Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up." They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship. All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear. "What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm. "Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on." "But that noise you made?" "I didn't make no noise." "You did, just now." "Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row." "Oh!" "Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?" "Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us." "What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now." The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go. But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence. "Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?" "No, Jem." "I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?" "Yes, I think so." "Well, you can see two of 'em easy like." "Yes, Jem; I can see." "Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful." There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again. "Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?" "No." "I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now." They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still. "Getting tired, Jem?" "N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?" "My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?" "I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can." "That's what I'm doing, Jem, but--do you think it's much further?" "Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was--I mean is--Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak." Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner. "Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady,	doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?"<\|quote\|>Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.</\|quote\|>"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water. "Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water." "No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming." "Don't feel tired, do you?" "Not a bit." "That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us." "But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high. "Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe." "No,	Don Lavington
"Ah, that greengage-tree,"	Helen	could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the	simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of	down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning	be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege." "What nonsense--listen!"	s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege." "What nonsense--listen!" And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other	She hasn t unpacked the Art books, in which she may show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here." "The sword looks well, though." "Magnificent." "Yes, doesn t it?" "Where s the piano, Meg?" "I warehoused that in London. Why?" "Nothing." "Curious, too, that the carpet fits." "The carpet s a mistake," announced Helen. "I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful." "You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start? There s no carpet there." They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege." "What nonsense--listen!" And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too,	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 the Charles s had only one spare room, and so could not invite a third guest. "Henry would have done what he could," she interpreted. Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming. "This IS Mr. Wilcox s house?" she inquired. "Surely you remember Howards End?" "Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now." "Miss Avery was extraordinary," said Margaret, her own spirits lightening a little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought her relief, and she yielded to it. "She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and would rather furnish her home with our things than think of it empty. In consequence here are all the library books." "Not all the books. She hasn t unpacked the Art books, in which she may show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here." "The sword looks well, though." "Magnificent." "Yes, doesn t it?" "Where s the piano, Meg?" "I warehoused that in London. Why?" "Nothing." "Curious, too, that the carpet fits." "The carpet s a mistake," announced Helen. "I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful." "You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start? There s no carpet there." They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege." "What nonsense--listen!" And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we	the Art books, in which she may show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here." "The sword looks well, though." "Magnificent." "Yes, doesn t it?" "Where s the piano, Meg?" "I warehoused that in London. Why?" "Nothing." "Curious, too, that the carpet fits." "The carpet s a mistake," announced Helen. "I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful." "You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start? There s no carpet there." They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it."<\|quote\|>"Ah, that greengage-tree,"</\|quote\|>cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege." "What nonsense--listen!" And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree,"	Howards End
"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"	Mlle. Blanche	know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him."	all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did	(she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at	Even if he should not be so, he will not come amiss, since, in the first place, he has his pension, and, in the second place, he will be content to live in a back room; whereas _I_ shall be Madame General, and get into a good circle of society" (she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at a distance. As for the bridegroom, he took a great interest in his new position. Blanche herself tied his tie, and Blanche herself pomaded him with the result that, in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, he looked quite comme il faut. "Il est, pourtant, _tr s_ comme il faut," Blanche	never left me in my dreams. Do not speak of him again." It was now clear to me that Blanche and he were on the point of coming to terms; yet, true to my usual custom, I said nothing. At length, Blanche took the initiative in explaining matters. She did so a week before we parted. "Il a de la chance," she prattled, "for the Grandmother is now _really_ ill, and therefore, bound to die. Mr. Astley has just sent a telegram to say so, and you will agree with me that the General is likely to be her heir. Even if he should not be so, he will not come amiss, since, in the first place, he has his pension, and, in the second place, he will be content to live in a back room; whereas _I_ shall be Madame General, and get into a good circle of society" (she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at a distance. As for the bridegroom, he took a great interest in his new position. Blanche herself tied his tie, and Blanche herself pomaded him with the result that, in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, he looked quite comme il faut. "Il est, pourtant, _tr s_ comme il faut," Blanche remarked when she issued from his room, as though the idea that he was "_tr s_ comme il faut" had impressed even her. For myself, I had so little knowledge of the minor details of the affair, and took part in it so much as a supine spectator, that I have forgotten most of what passed on this occasion. I only remember that Blanche and the Widow figured at it, not as "de Cominges," but as "du Placet." Why they had hitherto been "de Cominges" I do not know I only know that this entirely satisfied the General, that he	word would please him; whereupon he would repeat it a hundred times in the day even though the word happened to express neither his thoughts nor his feelings. Again, I would try to get him to talk about his children, but always he cut me short in his old snappish way, and passed to another subject. "Yes, yes my children," was all that I could extract from him. "Yes, you are right in what you have said about them." Only once did he disclose his real feelings. That was when we were taking him to the theatre, and suddenly he exclaimed: "My unfortunate children! Yes, sir, they _are_ unfortunate children." Once, too, when I chanced to mention Polina, he grew quite bitter against her. "She is an ungrateful woman!" he exclaimed. "She is a bad and ungrateful woman! She has broken up a family. If there were laws here, I would have her impaled. Yes, I would." As for De Griers, the General would not have his name mentioned. "He has ruined me," he would say. "He has robbed me, and cut my throat. For two years he was a perfect nightmare to me. For months at a time he never left me in my dreams. Do not speak of him again." It was now clear to me that Blanche and he were on the point of coming to terms; yet, true to my usual custom, I said nothing. At length, Blanche took the initiative in explaining matters. She did so a week before we parted. "Il a de la chance," she prattled, "for the Grandmother is now _really_ ill, and therefore, bound to die. Mr. Astley has just sent a telegram to say so, and you will agree with me that the General is likely to be her heir. Even if he should not be so, he will not come amiss, since, in the first place, he has his pension, and, in the second place, he will be content to live in a back room; whereas _I_ shall be Madame General, and get into a good circle of society" (she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at a distance. As for the bridegroom, he took a great interest in his new position. Blanche herself tied his tie, and Blanche herself pomaded him with the result that, in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, he looked quite comme il faut. "Il est, pourtant, _tr s_ comme il faut," Blanche remarked when she issued from his room, as though the idea that he was "_tr s_ comme il faut" had impressed even her. For myself, I had so little knowledge of the minor details of the affair, and took part in it so much as a supine spectator, that I have forgotten most of what passed on this occasion. I only remember that Blanche and the Widow figured at it, not as "de Cominges," but as "du Placet." Why they had hitherto been "de Cominges" I do not know I only know that this entirely satisfied the General, that he liked the name "du Placet" even better than he had liked the name "de Cominges." On the morning of the wedding, he paced the salon in his gala attire and kept repeating to himself with an air of great gravity and importance: "Mlle. Blanche du Placet! Mlle. Blanche du Placet, du Placet!" He beamed with satisfaction as he did so. Both in the church and at the wedding breakfast he remained not only pleased and contented, but even proud. She too underwent a change, for now she assumed an air of added dignity. "I must behave altogether differently," she confided to me with a serious air. "Yet, mark you, there is a tiresome circumstance of which I had never before thought which is, how best to pronounce my new family name. Zagorianski, Zagozianski, Madame la G n rale de Sago, Madame la G n rale de Fourteen Consonants oh these infernal Russian names! The _last_ of them would be the best to use, don t you think?" At length the time had come for us to part, and Blanche, the egregious Blanche, shed real tears as she took her leave of me. "Tu tais bon enfant" she said with a	some money, though the General had a little of his own, and enjoyed taking out his purse before strangers. Once I had to use actual force to prevent him from buying a phaeton at a price of seven hundred francs, after a vehicle had caught his fancy in the Palais Royal as seeming to be a desirable present for Blanche. What could _she_ have done with a seven-hundred-franc phaeton? and the General possessed in the world but a thousand francs! The origin even of those francs I could never determine, but imagined them to have emanated from Mr. Astley the more so since the latter had paid the family s hotel bill. As for what view the General took of myself, I think that he never divined the footing on which I stood with Blanche. True, he had heard, in a dim sort of way, that I had won a good deal of money; but more probably he supposed me to be acting as secretary or even as a kind of servant to his inamorata. At all events, he continued to address me, in his old haughty style, as my superior. At times he even took it upon himself to scold me. One morning in particular, he started to sneer at me over our matutinal coffee. Though not a man prone to take offence, he suddenly, and for some reason of which to this day I am ignorant, fell out with me. Of course even he himself did not know the reason. To put things shortly, he began a speech which had neither beginning nor ending, and cried out, b tons rompus, that I was a boy whom he would soon put to rights and so forth, and so forth. Yet no one could understand what he was saying, and at length Blanche exploded in a burst of laughter. Finally something appeased him, and he was taken out for his walk. More than once, however, I noticed that his depression was growing upon him; that he seemed to be feeling the want of somebody or something; that, despite Blanche s presence, he was missing some person in particular. Twice, on these occasions, did he plunge into a conversation with me, though he could not make himself intelligible, and only went on rambling about the service, his late wife, his home, and his property. Every now and then, also, some particular word would please him; whereupon he would repeat it a hundred times in the day even though the word happened to express neither his thoughts nor his feelings. Again, I would try to get him to talk about his children, but always he cut me short in his old snappish way, and passed to another subject. "Yes, yes my children," was all that I could extract from him. "Yes, you are right in what you have said about them." Only once did he disclose his real feelings. That was when we were taking him to the theatre, and suddenly he exclaimed: "My unfortunate children! Yes, sir, they _are_ unfortunate children." Once, too, when I chanced to mention Polina, he grew quite bitter against her. "She is an ungrateful woman!" he exclaimed. "She is a bad and ungrateful woman! She has broken up a family. If there were laws here, I would have her impaled. Yes, I would." As for De Griers, the General would not have his name mentioned. "He has ruined me," he would say. "He has robbed me, and cut my throat. For two years he was a perfect nightmare to me. For months at a time he never left me in my dreams. Do not speak of him again." It was now clear to me that Blanche and he were on the point of coming to terms; yet, true to my usual custom, I said nothing. At length, Blanche took the initiative in explaining matters. She did so a week before we parted. "Il a de la chance," she prattled, "for the Grandmother is now _really_ ill, and therefore, bound to die. Mr. Astley has just sent a telegram to say so, and you will agree with me that the General is likely to be her heir. Even if he should not be so, he will not come amiss, since, in the first place, he has his pension, and, in the second place, he will be content to live in a back room; whereas _I_ shall be Madame General, and get into a good circle of society" (she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at a distance. As for the bridegroom, he took a great interest in his new position. Blanche herself tied his tie, and Blanche herself pomaded him with the result that, in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, he looked quite comme il faut. "Il est, pourtant, _tr s_ comme il faut," Blanche remarked when she issued from his room, as though the idea that he was "_tr s_ comme il faut" had impressed even her. For myself, I had so little knowledge of the minor details of the affair, and took part in it so much as a supine spectator, that I have forgotten most of what passed on this occasion. I only remember that Blanche and the Widow figured at it, not as "de Cominges," but as "du Placet." Why they had hitherto been "de Cominges" I do not know I only know that this entirely satisfied the General, that he liked the name "du Placet" even better than he had liked the name "de Cominges." On the morning of the wedding, he paced the salon in his gala attire and kept repeating to himself with an air of great gravity and importance: "Mlle. Blanche du Placet! Mlle. Blanche du Placet, du Placet!" He beamed with satisfaction as he did so. Both in the church and at the wedding breakfast he remained not only pleased and contented, but even proud. She too underwent a change, for now she assumed an air of added dignity. "I must behave altogether differently," she confided to me with a serious air. "Yet, mark you, there is a tiresome circumstance of which I had never before thought which is, how best to pronounce my new family name. Zagorianski, Zagozianski, Madame la G n rale de Sago, Madame la G n rale de Fourteen Consonants oh these infernal Russian names! The _last_ of them would be the best to use, don t you think?" At length the time had come for us to part, and Blanche, the egregious Blanche, shed real tears as she took her leave of me. "Tu tais bon enfant" she said with a sob. "Je te croyais b te et tu en avais l air, but it suited you." Then, having given me a final handshake, she exclaimed, "Attends!" "; whereafter, running into her boudoir, she brought me thence two thousand-franc notes. I could scarcely believe my eyes! "They may come in handy for you," she explained, "for, though you are a very learned tutor, you are a very stupid man. More than two thousand francs, however, I am not going to give you, for the reason that, if I did so, you would gamble them all away. Now good-bye. Nous serons toujours bons amis, and if you win again, do not fail to come to me, et tu seras heureux." I myself had still five hundred francs left, as well as a watch worth a thousand francs, a few diamond studs, and so on. Consequently, I could subsist for quite a length of time without particularly bestirring myself. Purposely I have taken up my abode where I am now partly to pull myself together, and partly to wait for Mr. Astley, who, I have learnt, will soon be here for a day or so on business. Yes, I know that, and then and then I shall go to Homburg. But to Roulettenberg I shall not go until next year, for they say it is bad to try one s luck twice in succession at a table. Moreover, Homburg is where the best play is carried on. XVII It is a year and eight months since I last looked at these notes of mine. I do so now only because, being overwhelmed with depression, I wish to distract my mind by reading them through at random. I left them off at the point where I was just going to Homburg. My God, with what a light heart (comparatively speaking) did I write the concluding lines! though it may be not so much with a light heart, as with a measure of self-confidence and unquenchable hope. At that time had I any doubts of myself? Yet behold me now. Scarcely a year and a half have passed, yet I am in a worse position than the meanest beggar. But what is a beggar? A fig for beggary! I have ruined myself that is all. Nor is there anything with which I can compare myself; there is no moral which it would be of any	short in his old snappish way, and passed to another subject. "Yes, yes my children," was all that I could extract from him. "Yes, you are right in what you have said about them." Only once did he disclose his real feelings. That was when we were taking him to the theatre, and suddenly he exclaimed: "My unfortunate children! Yes, sir, they _are_ unfortunate children." Once, too, when I chanced to mention Polina, he grew quite bitter against her. "She is an ungrateful woman!" he exclaimed. "She is a bad and ungrateful woman! She has broken up a family. If there were laws here, I would have her impaled. Yes, I would." As for De Griers, the General would not have his name mentioned. "He has ruined me," he would say. "He has robbed me, and cut my throat. For two years he was a perfect nightmare to me. For months at a time he never left me in my dreams. Do not speak of him again." It was now clear to me that Blanche and he were on the point of coming to terms; yet, true to my usual custom, I said nothing. At length, Blanche took the initiative in explaining matters. She did so a week before we parted. "Il a de la chance," she prattled, "for the Grandmother is now _really_ ill, and therefore, bound to die. Mr. Astley has just sent a telegram to say so, and you will agree with me that the General is likely to be her heir. Even if he should not be so, he will not come amiss, since, in the first place, he has his pension, and, in the second place, he will be content to live in a back room; whereas _I_ shall be Madame General, and get into a good circle of society" (she was always thinking of this) "and become a Russian ch telaine. Yes, I shall have a mansion of my own, and peasants, and a million of money at my back." "But, suppose he should prove jealous? He might demand all sorts of things, you know. Do you follow me?"<\|quote\|>"Oh, dear no! How ridiculous that would be of him! Besides, I have taken measures to prevent it. You need not be alarmed. That is to say, I have induced him to sign notes of hand in Albert s name. Consequently, at any time I could get him punished. Isn t he ridiculous?"</\|quote\|>"Very well, then. Marry him." And, in truth, she did so though the marriage was a family one only, and involved no pomp or ceremony. In fact, she invited to the nuptials none but Albert and a few other friends. Hortense, Cl opatre, and the rest she kept firmly at a distance. As for the bridegroom, he took a great interest in his new position. Blanche herself tied his tie, and Blanche herself pomaded him with the result that, in his frockcoat and white waistcoat, he looked quite comme il faut. "Il est, pourtant, _tr s_ comme il faut," Blanche remarked when she issued from his room, as though the idea that he was "_tr s_ comme il faut" had impressed even her. For myself, I had so little knowledge of the minor details of the affair, and took part in it so much as a supine spectator, that I have forgotten most of what passed on this occasion. I only remember that Blanche and the Widow figured at it, not as "de Cominges," but as "du Placet." Why they had hitherto been "de Cominges" I do not know I only know that this entirely satisfied the General, that he liked the name "du Placet" even better than he had liked the name "de Cominges." On the morning of the wedding, he paced the salon in his gala attire and kept repeating to himself with an air of great gravity and importance: "Mlle. Blanche du Placet! Mlle. Blanche du Placet, du Placet!" He beamed with satisfaction as he did so. Both in the church and at the wedding breakfast he remained not only pleased and contented, but even proud. She too underwent a change, for now she assumed an air of added dignity. "I must behave altogether differently," she confided to me with a serious air. "Yet, mark you, there is a tiresome circumstance of which I had never before thought which is, how best to pronounce my new family name. Zagorianski, Zagozianski, Madame la G n rale de Sago, Madame la G n rale de Fourteen Consonants oh these infernal Russian names! The _last_ of them would be the best to use, don t you think?" At length the time had	The Gambler
cried Oliver;	No speaker	God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and	upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I	eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this	stole cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with	the church-bell struck two. Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling. "The boy next," said Toby. "Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him." Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night." Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges. It was a little lattice window, about five feet	"Look out, Barney." The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again. It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rain fell, Oliver's hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was floating about. They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards the lights which he had seen before. They were at no great distance off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey. "Slap through the town," whispered Sikes; "there'll be nobody in the way, to-night, to see us." Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two. Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling. "The boy next," said Toby. "Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him." Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night." Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges. It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also. "Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; "I'm a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in." "There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach," interposed Toby. "Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms." "Keep quiet, can't you?" replied Sikes, with a threatening look. "The room-door is open, is it?" "Wide," replied Toby,	to drink it, Bill." "He had better!" said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. "Burn my body, if he isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse imp; drink it!" Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes. This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor: close outside the fender. They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell into a heavy doze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other of the scenes of the past day: when he was roused by Toby Crackit jumping up and declaring it was half-past one. In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively engaged in busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their necks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats; Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he hastily crammed into the pockets. "Barkers for me, Barney," said Toby Crackit. "Here they are," replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. "You loaded them yourself." "All right!" replied Toby, stowing them away. "The persuaders?" "I've got 'em," replied Sikes. "Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies nothing forgotten?" inquired Toby: fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat. "All right," rejoined his companion. "Bring them bits of timber, Barney. That's the time of day." With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney's hands, who, having delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on Oliver's cape. "Now then!" said Sikes, holding out his hand. Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the air, and the drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand mechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose. "Take his other hand, Toby," said Sikes. "Look out, Barney." The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again. It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rain fell, Oliver's hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was floating about. They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards the lights which he had seen before. They were at no great distance off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey. "Slap through the town," whispered Sikes; "there'll be nobody in the way, to-night, to see us." Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two. Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling. "The boy next," said Toby. "Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him." Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night." Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges. It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also. "Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; "I'm a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in." "There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach," interposed Toby. "Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms." "Keep quiet, can't you?" replied Sikes, with a threatening look. "The room-door is open, is it?" "Wide," replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. "The game of that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who's got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night. So neat!" Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside. "Take this lantern," said Sikes, looking into the room. "You see the stairs afore you?" Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, "Yes." Sikes, pointing to the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant. "It's done in a minute," said Sikes, in the same low whisper. "Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!" "What's that?" whispered the other man. They listened intently. "Nothing," said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. "Now!" In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily. "Come back!" suddenly cried Sikes aloud. "Back! back!" Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly. The cry was repeated a light appeared a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes a flash a loud noise a smoke a crash somewhere, but where he knew not, and he staggered back. Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the collar before the	the way, to-night, to see us." Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two. Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling. "The boy next," said Toby. "Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him." Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!"<\|quote\|>cried Oliver;</\|quote\|>"let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night." Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges. It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also. "Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; "I'm a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in." "There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach," interposed Toby. "Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms." "Keep quiet, can't you?" replied Sikes, with a threatening look. "The room-door is open, is it?" "Wide," replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. "The game of that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who's got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night. So neat!" Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a	Oliver Twist
"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."	Tony Last	people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in	and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at	delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways	want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's	are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation.	open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now	easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of earshot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said, "What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!" He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.	She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it."<\|quote\|>"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..."</\|quote\|>Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of earshot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts	A Handful Of Dust
Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,	No speaker	as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a	uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind	he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone	Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you	the information. I know everything, as I told you before. I am also aware of the social position of an Italian who pulls teeth in a minute provincial town." He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that it was pretty, low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she was sharp enough to say, "Indeed, Philip, you surprise me. I understood you went in for equality and so on." "And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of the Italian nobility." "Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to shock dear Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you will find him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady, accustomed to ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man whose position is--well, not equal to the son of the servants dentist in Coronation Place. I am not blaming you now. But I blame the glamour of Italy--I have felt it myself, you know--and I greatly blame Miss Abbott." "Caroline! Why blame her? What s all this to do with Caroline?" "Because we expected her to--" He saw that the answer would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, "So I am confident, and you in	We shall meet at twelve o clock lunch tomorrow, if we don t meet before. They give us caffe later in our rooms." It was a little too impudent. Philip replied, "I should like to see you now, please, in my room, as I have come all the way on business." He heard Miss Abbott gasp. Signor Carella, who was lighting a rank cigar, had not understood. It was as he expected. When he was alone with Lilia he lost all nervousness. The remembrance of his long intellectual supremacy strengthened him, and he began volubly-- "My dear Lilia, don t let s have a scene. Before I arrived I thought I might have to question you. It is unnecessary. I know everything. Miss Abbott has told me a certain amount, and the rest I see for myself." "See for yourself?" she exclaimed, and he remembered afterwards that she had flushed crimson. "That he is probably a ruffian and certainly a cad." "There are no cads in Italy," she said quickly. He was taken aback. It was one of his own remarks. And she further upset him by adding, "He is the son of a dentist. Why not?" "Thank you for the information. I know everything, as I told you before. I am also aware of the social position of an Italian who pulls teeth in a minute provincial town." He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that it was pretty, low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she was sharp enough to say, "Indeed, Philip, you surprise me. I understood you went in for equality and so on." "And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of the Italian nobility." "Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to shock dear Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you will find him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady, accustomed to ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man whose position is--well, not equal to the son of the servants dentist in Coronation Place. I am not blaming you now. But I blame the glamour of Italy--I have felt it myself, you know--and I greatly blame Miss Abbott." "Caroline! Why blame her? What s all this to do with Caroline?" "Because we expected her to--" He saw that the answer would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, "So I am confident, and you in your heart agree, that this engagement will not last. Think of your life at home--think of Irma! And I ll also say think of us; for you know, Lilia, that we count you more than a relation. I should feel I was losing my own sister if you did this, and my mother would lose a daughter." She seemed touched at last, for she turned away her face and said, "I can t break it off now!" "Poor Lilia," said he, genuinely moved. "I know it may be painful. But I have come to rescue you, and, book-worm though I may be, I am not frightened to stand up to a bully. He s merely an insolent boy. He thinks he can keep you to your word by threats. He will be different when he sees he has a man to deal with." What follows should be prefaced with some simile--the simile of a powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake--for it blew Philip up in the air and flattened him on the ground and swallowed him up in the depths. Lilia turned on her gallant defender and said-- "For once in my life I ll thank you to leave me alone.	more effective with Lilia if he had her alone, and pretended to himself that he must hear her defence before giving judgment. Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine, attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, "England is a great country. The Italians love England and the English." Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed. "Italy too," the other continued a little resentfully, "is a great country. She has produced many famous men--for example Garibaldi and Dante. The latter wrote the Inferno, the Purgatorio, the Paradiso. The Inferno is the most beautiful." And with the complacent tone of one who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening lines-- Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura Che la diritta via era smarrita-- a quotation which was more apt than he supposed. Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that she was marrying no ignoramus. Anxious to exhibit all the good qualities of her betrothed, she abruptly introduced the subject of pallone, in which, it appeared, he was a proficient player. He suddenly became shy and developed a conceited grin--the grin of the village yokel whose cricket score is mentioned before a stranger. Philip himself had loved to watch pallone, that entrancing combination of lawn-tennis and fives. But he did not expect to love it quite so much again. "Oh, look!" exclaimed Lilia, "the poor wee fish!" A starved cat had been worrying them all for pieces of the purple quivering beef they were trying to swallow. Signor Carella, with the brutality so common in Italians, had caught her by the paw and flung her away from him. Now she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to hook out the fish. He got up, drove her off, and finding a large glass stopper by the bowl, entirely plugged up the aperture with it. "But may not the fish die?" said Miss Abbott. "They have no air." "Fish live on water, not on air," he replied in a knowing voice, and sat down. Apparently he was at his ease again, for he took to spitting on the floor. Philip glanced at Lilia but did not detect her wincing. She talked bravely till the end of the disgusting meal, and then got up saying, "Well, Philip, I am sure you are ready for by-bye. We shall meet at twelve o clock lunch tomorrow, if we don t meet before. They give us caffe later in our rooms." It was a little too impudent. Philip replied, "I should like to see you now, please, in my room, as I have come all the way on business." He heard Miss Abbott gasp. Signor Carella, who was lighting a rank cigar, had not understood. It was as he expected. When he was alone with Lilia he lost all nervousness. The remembrance of his long intellectual supremacy strengthened him, and he began volubly-- "My dear Lilia, don t let s have a scene. Before I arrived I thought I might have to question you. It is unnecessary. I know everything. Miss Abbott has told me a certain amount, and the rest I see for myself." "See for yourself?" she exclaimed, and he remembered afterwards that she had flushed crimson. "That he is probably a ruffian and certainly a cad." "There are no cads in Italy," she said quickly. He was taken aback. It was one of his own remarks. And she further upset him by adding, "He is the son of a dentist. Why not?" "Thank you for the information. I know everything, as I told you before. I am also aware of the social position of an Italian who pulls teeth in a minute provincial town." He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that it was pretty, low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she was sharp enough to say, "Indeed, Philip, you surprise me. I understood you went in for equality and so on." "And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of the Italian nobility." "Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to shock dear Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you will find him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady, accustomed to ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man whose position is--well, not equal to the son of the servants dentist in Coronation Place. I am not blaming you now. But I blame the glamour of Italy--I have felt it myself, you know--and I greatly blame Miss Abbott." "Caroline! Why blame her? What s all this to do with Caroline?" "Because we expected her to--" He saw that the answer would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, "So I am confident, and you in your heart agree, that this engagement will not last. Think of your life at home--think of Irma! And I ll also say think of us; for you know, Lilia, that we count you more than a relation. I should feel I was losing my own sister if you did this, and my mother would lose a daughter." She seemed touched at last, for she turned away her face and said, "I can t break it off now!" "Poor Lilia," said he, genuinely moved. "I know it may be painful. But I have come to rescue you, and, book-worm though I may be, I am not frightened to stand up to a bully. He s merely an insolent boy. He thinks he can keep you to your word by threats. He will be different when he sees he has a man to deal with." What follows should be prefaced with some simile--the simile of a powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake--for it blew Philip up in the air and flattened him on the ground and swallowed him up in the depths. Lilia turned on her gallant defender and said-- "For once in my life I ll thank you to leave me alone. I ll thank your mother too. For twelve years you ve trained me and tortured me, and I ll stand it no more. Do you think I m a fool? Do you think I never felt? Ah! when I came to your house a poor young bride, how you all looked me over--never a kind word--and discussed me, and thought I might just do; and your mother corrected me, and your sister snubbed me, and you said funny things about me to show how clever you were! And when Charles died I was still to run in strings for the honour of your beastly family, and I was to be cooped up at Sawston and learn to keep house, and all my chances spoilt of marrying again. No, thank you! No, thank you! Bully? Insolent boy? Who s that, pray, but you? But, thank goodness, I can stand up against the world now, for I ve found Gino, and this time I marry for love!" The coarseness and truth of her attack alike overwhelmed him. But her supreme insolence found him words, and he too burst forth. "Yes! and I forbid you to do it! You despise me, perhaps, and think I m feeble. But you re mistaken. You are ungrateful and impertinent and contemptible, but I will save you in order to save Irma and our name. There is going to be such a row in this town that you and he ll be sorry you came to it. I shall shrink from nothing, for my blood is up. It is unwise of you to laugh. I forbid you to marry Carella, and I shall tell him so now." "Do," she cried. "Tell him so now. Have it out with him. Gino! Gino! Come in! Avanti! Fra Filippo forbids the banns!" Gino appeared so quickly that he must have been listening outside the door. "Fra Filippo s blood s up. He shrinks from nothing. Oh, take care he doesn t hurt you!" She swayed about in vulgar imitation of Philip s walk, and then, with a proud glance at the square shoulders of her betrothed, flounced out of the room. Did she intend them to fight? Philip had no intention of doing so; and no more, it seemed, had Gino, who stood nervously in the middle of the room with twitching lips and eyes. "Please sit down, Signor Carella,"	him. Now she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to hook out the fish. He got up, drove her off, and finding a large glass stopper by the bowl, entirely plugged up the aperture with it. "But may not the fish die?" said Miss Abbott. "They have no air." "Fish live on water, not on air," he replied in a knowing voice, and sat down. Apparently he was at his ease again, for he took to spitting on the floor. Philip glanced at Lilia but did not detect her wincing. She talked bravely till the end of the disgusting meal, and then got up saying, "Well, Philip, I am sure you are ready for by-bye. We shall meet at twelve o clock lunch tomorrow, if we don t meet before. They give us caffe later in our rooms." It was a little too impudent. Philip replied, "I should like to see you now, please, in my room, as I have come all the way on business." He heard Miss Abbott gasp. Signor Carella, who was lighting a rank cigar, had not understood. It was as he expected. When he was alone with Lilia he lost all nervousness. The remembrance of his long intellectual supremacy strengthened him, and he began volubly-- "My dear Lilia, don t let s have a scene. Before I arrived I thought I might have to question you. It is unnecessary. I know everything. Miss Abbott has told me a certain amount, and the rest I see for myself." "See for yourself?" she exclaimed, and he remembered afterwards that she had flushed crimson. "That he is probably a ruffian and certainly a cad." "There are no cads in Italy," she said quickly. He was taken aback. It was one of his own remarks. And she further upset him by adding, "He is the son of a dentist. Why not?" "Thank you for the information. I know everything, as I told you before. I am also aware of the social position of an Italian who pulls teeth in a minute provincial town." He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that it was pretty, low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she was sharp enough to say, "Indeed, Philip, you surprise me. I understood you went in for equality and so on." "And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of the Italian nobility." "Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to shock dear Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home."<\|quote\|>Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with,</\|quote\|>"Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you will find him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady, accustomed to ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man whose position is--well, not equal to the son of the servants dentist in Coronation Place. I am not blaming you now. But I blame the glamour of Italy--I have felt it myself, you know--and I greatly blame Miss Abbott." "Caroline! Why blame her? What s all this to do with Caroline?" "Because we expected her to--" He saw that the answer would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, "So I am confident, and you in your heart agree, that this engagement will not last. Think of your life at home--think of Irma! And I ll also say think of us; for you know, Lilia, that we count you more than a relation. I should feel I was losing my own sister if you did this, and my mother would lose a daughter." She seemed touched at last, for she turned away her face and said, "I can t break it off now!" "Poor Lilia," said he, genuinely moved. "I know it may be painful. But I have come to rescue you, and, book-worm though I may be, I am not frightened to stand up to a bully. He s merely an insolent boy. He thinks he can keep you to your word by threats. He will be different when he sees he has a man to deal with." What follows should be prefaced with some simile--the simile of a powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake--for it blew Philip up in the air and flattened him on the ground and swallowed him up in the depths. Lilia turned on her gallant defender and said-- "For once in my life I ll thank you to leave me alone. I ll thank your mother too. For twelve years you ve trained me and tortured me, and I ll stand it no more. Do you think I m a fool? Do you think I never felt? Ah! when I came to your house a poor young bride, how you all looked me over--never a kind word--and discussed me, and thought I might just do; and your mother corrected me, and your sister snubbed me, and you said funny things about me to show how clever you were! And when Charles died I was still to run in strings for the honour of your beastly	Where Angels Fear To Tread
"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."	Miss Bartlett	She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their	a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing,	has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly	George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's	is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go,	women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced the	Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced the names of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we find it is to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. That is the man all over--playing tricks on people, on the most sacred form of life that he can find. Next, I meet you together, and find him protecting and teaching you and your mother to be shocked, when it was for YOU to settle whether you were shocked or no. Cecil all over again. He daren't let a woman decide. He's the type who's kept Europe back for a thousand years. Every moment of his life he's forming you, telling you what's charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what a man thinks womanly; and you, you of all women, listen to his voice instead of to your own. So it was at the Rectory, when I met you both again; so it has been the whole of this afternoon. Therefore--not" 'therefore I kissed you,' "because the book made me do that, and I wish to goodness I had more self-control. I'm not ashamed. I don't apologize. But it has frightened you, and you may not have noticed that I love you. Or would you have told me to go, and dealt with a tremendous thing so lightly? But therefore--therefore I settled to fight him." Lucy thought of a very good remark. "You say Mr. Vyse wants me to listen to him, Mr. Emerson. Pardon me for suggesting that you have caught the habit." And he took the shoddy reproof and touched it into immortality. He said: "Yes, I have," and sank down as if suddenly weary. "I'm the same kind of brute at bottom. This desire to govern a woman--it lies very deep, and men and women must fight it together before they shall enter the garden. But I do love you surely in a better way than he does." He thought. "Yes--really in a better way. I want you to have your own thoughts even when I hold you in my arms." He stretched them towards her. "Lucy, be quick--there's no time for us to talk now--come to me as you came in the spring, and afterwards I will be gentle and explain. I have cared for you since that man died. I cannot live without you," 'No good,' "I thought;" 'she is marrying someone else'; "but I meet you again when all the	Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand.<\|quote\|>"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go."</\|quote\|>Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in	A Room With A View
"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"	Jem Wimble	were thrown into the torrent.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>said Jem, all at once.	finish the eggs, whose shells were thrown into the torrent.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>said Jem, all at once. "It does not matter, so	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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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	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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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;	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. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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	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. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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 below the foaming torrent, a glance at which seemed to produce vertigo. To stand still seemed to be worse than going on, and taking it to his comfort that what one man could do another might, Don reached the corner, but hesitated again, for there seemed to be no foot-hold whatever. But as he hesitated a great brown hand came round, ready to grasp his firmly; and with this help he made the venture, pressing himself close against the rock and creeping on. He was just in the most perilous part, well out over the torrent, when his left foot slipped, and a horrible chill ran through him, as he felt that he was falling into the chasm below to instant death. He held on with his right hand, and strove to press his breast against the rock, but the effort was vain; his right hand slipped from the crevice in which it was thrust, his right foot glided over the wet moss, and he slipped down, hung for a moment or two over the foaming waters, and then felt himself swung up and on to a broad ledge, upon which Ngati was standing. The Maori took it as a matter of course, signed to him to get up, and passed his hand round the	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. Ngati pointed, and bent down, holding his hand to his ear. "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.<\|quote\|>"I should like to know where he's going to take us,"</\|quote\|>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	Don Lavington
said the attendant gravely.	No speaker	provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on	clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch	of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he	remember." "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but	somewhat affably. "Dressed as Thursday!" said Syme in meditation. "It doesn't sound a warm costume." "Oh, yes, sir," said the other eagerly, "the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin." "Well, I don't understand anything," said Syme, sighing. "I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember." "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal. CHAPTER XV. THE ACCUSER As Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light	your clothes, sir." "Clothes!" said Syme sardonically. "I have no clothes except these," and he lifted two long strips of his frock-coat in fascinating festoons, and made a movement as if to twirl like a ballet girl. "My master asks me to say," said the attendant, "that there is a fancy dress ball tonight, and that he desires you to put on the costume that I have laid out. Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and some cold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hours before supper." "Cold pheasant is a good thing," said Syme reflectively, "and Burgundy is a spanking good thing. But really I do not want either of them so much as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort of costume you have got laid out for me. Where is it?" The servant lifted off a kind of ottoman a long peacock-blue drapery, rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents. "You're to be dressed as Thursday, sir," said the valet somewhat affably. "Dressed as Thursday!" said Syme in meditation. "It doesn't sound a warm costume." "Oh, yes, sir," said the other eagerly, "the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin." "Well, I don't understand anything," said Syme, sighing. "I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember." "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal. CHAPTER XV. THE ACCUSER As Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness. The vestment itself would alone have suggested the symbol; and Syme felt also how perfectly this pattern of pure white and black expressed the soul of the pale and austere Secretary, with his inhuman veracity and his cold frenzy, which made him so easily make war on the anarchists, and yet so easily pass for one of them. Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man's eyes were still stern. No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question. If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else. For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet who seeks always to make the light in special shapes, to split it up into sun and star. The philosopher may sometimes love the infinite; the poet always loves the finite. For him the great moment is not the creation of light, but the creation of the sun and moon. As	the carriage was carrying him. He saw that they passed the stone gates of what might have been a park, that they began gradually to climb a hill which, while wooded on both sides, was somewhat more orderly than a forest. Then there began to grow upon him, as upon a man slowly waking from a healthy sleep, a pleasure in everything. He felt that the hedges were what hedges should be, living walls; that a hedge is like a human army, disciplined, but all the more alive. He saw high elms behind the hedges, and vaguely thought how happy boys would be climbing there. Then his carriage took a turn of the path, and he saw suddenly and quietly, like a long, low, sunset cloud, a long, low house, mellow in the mild light of sunset. All the six friends compared notes afterwards and quarrelled; but they all agreed that in some unaccountable way the place reminded them of their boyhood. It was either this elm-top or that crooked path, it was either this scrap of orchard or that shape of a window; but each man of them declared that he could remember this place before he could remember his mother. When the carriages eventually rolled up to a large, low, cavernous gateway, another man in the same uniform, but wearing a silver star on the grey breast of his coat, came out to meet them. This impressive person said to the bewildered Syme "Refreshments are provided for you in your room." Syme, under the influence of the same mesmeric sleep of amazement, went up the large oaken stairs after the respectful attendant. He entered a splendid suite of apartments that seemed to be designed specially for him. He walked up to a long mirror with the ordinary instinct of his class, to pull his tie straight or to smooth his hair; and there he saw the frightful figure that he was blood running down his face from where the bough had struck him, his hair standing out like yellow rags of rank grass, his clothes torn into long, wavering tatters. At once the whole enigma sprang up, simply as the question of how he had got there, and how he was to get out again. Exactly at the same moment a man in blue, who had been appointed as his valet, said very solemnly "I have put out your clothes, sir." "Clothes!" said Syme sardonically. "I have no clothes except these," and he lifted two long strips of his frock-coat in fascinating festoons, and made a movement as if to twirl like a ballet girl. "My master asks me to say," said the attendant, "that there is a fancy dress ball tonight, and that he desires you to put on the costume that I have laid out. Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and some cold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hours before supper." "Cold pheasant is a good thing," said Syme reflectively, "and Burgundy is a spanking good thing. But really I do not want either of them so much as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort of costume you have got laid out for me. Where is it?" The servant lifted off a kind of ottoman a long peacock-blue drapery, rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents. "You're to be dressed as Thursday, sir," said the valet somewhat affably. "Dressed as Thursday!" said Syme in meditation. "It doesn't sound a warm costume." "Oh, yes, sir," said the other eagerly, "the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin." "Well, I don't understand anything," said Syme, sighing. "I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember." "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal. CHAPTER XV. THE ACCUSER As Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness. The vestment itself would alone have suggested the symbol; and Syme felt also how perfectly this pattern of pure white and black expressed the soul of the pale and austere Secretary, with his inhuman veracity and his cold frenzy, which made him so easily make war on the anarchists, and yet so easily pass for one of them. Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man's eyes were still stern. No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question. If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else. For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet who seeks always to make the light in special shapes, to split it up into sun and star. The philosopher may sometimes love the infinite; the poet always loves the finite. For him the great moment is not the creation of light, but the creation of the sun and moon. As they descended the broad stairs together they overtook Ratcliffe, who was clad in spring green like a huntsman, and the pattern upon whose garment was a green tangle of trees. For he stood for that third day on which the earth and green things were made, and his square, sensible face, with its not unfriendly cynicism, seemed appropriate enough to it. They were led out of another broad and low gateway into a very large old English garden, full of torches and bonfires, by the broken light of which a vast carnival of people were dancing in motley dress. Syme seemed to see every shape in Nature imitated in some crazy costume. There was a man dressed as a windmill with enormous sails, a man dressed as an elephant, a man dressed as a balloon; the two last, together, seemed to keep the thread of their farcical adventures. Syme even saw, with a queer thrill, one dancer dressed like an enormous hornbill, with a beak twice as big as himself the queer bird which had fixed itself on his fancy like a living question while he was rushing down the long road at the Zoological Gardens. There were a thousand other such objects, however. There was a dancing lamp-post, a dancing apple tree, a dancing ship. One would have thought that the untamable tune of some mad musician had set all the common objects of field and street dancing an eternal jig. And long afterwards, when Syme was middle-aged and at rest, he could never see one of those particular objects a lamppost, or an apple tree, or a windmill without thinking that it was a strayed reveller from that revel of masquerade. On one side of this lawn, alive with dancers, was a sort of green bank, like the terrace in such old-fashioned gardens. Along this, in a kind of crescent, stood seven great chairs, the thrones of the seven days. Gogol and Dr. Bull were already in their seats; the Professor was just mounting to his. Gogol, or Tuesday, had his simplicity well symbolised by a dress designed upon the division of the waters, a dress that separated upon his forehead and fell to his feet, grey and silver, like a sheet of rain. The Professor, whose day was that on which the birds and fishes the ruder forms of life were created, had a dress of dim	like yellow rags of rank grass, his clothes torn into long, wavering tatters. At once the whole enigma sprang up, simply as the question of how he had got there, and how he was to get out again. Exactly at the same moment a man in blue, who had been appointed as his valet, said very solemnly "I have put out your clothes, sir." "Clothes!" said Syme sardonically. "I have no clothes except these," and he lifted two long strips of his frock-coat in fascinating festoons, and made a movement as if to twirl like a ballet girl. "My master asks me to say," said the attendant, "that there is a fancy dress ball tonight, and that he desires you to put on the costume that I have laid out. Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and some cold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hours before supper." "Cold pheasant is a good thing," said Syme reflectively, "and Burgundy is a spanking good thing. But really I do not want either of them so much as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort of costume you have got laid out for me. Where is it?" The servant lifted off a kind of ottoman a long peacock-blue drapery, rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents. "You're to be dressed as Thursday, sir," said the valet somewhat affably. "Dressed as Thursday!" said Syme in meditation. "It doesn't sound a warm costume." "Oh, yes, sir," said the other eagerly, "the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin." "Well, I don't understand anything," said Syme, sighing. "I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember." "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday. "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?" "Yes, sir, everything,"<\|quote\|>said the attendant gravely.</\|quote\|>"Shall I help you on with your costume?" "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently. But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal. CHAPTER XV. THE ACCUSER As Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness. The vestment itself would alone have suggested the symbol; and Syme felt also how perfectly this pattern of pure white and black expressed the soul of the pale and austere Secretary, with his inhuman veracity and his cold frenzy, which made him so easily make war on the anarchists, and yet so easily pass for one of them. Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man's eyes were still stern. No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question. If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else. For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet	The Man Who Was Thursday
"I should never get like that,"	Adela Quested	and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was	kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same	and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad	subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial	it did now. She would see India always as a frieze, never as a spirit, and she assumed that it was a spirit of which Mrs. Moore had had a glimpse. And sure enough they did drive away from the club in a few minutes, and they did dress, and to dinner came Miss Derek and the McBrydes, and the menu was: Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for,"	him asked too?" "Mrs. Moore says he is so nice." "Very well, Miss Quested. Will Thursday suit you?" "Indeed it will, and that morning we go to this Indian lady's. All the nice things are coming Thursday." "I won't ask the City Magistrate to bring you. I know he'll be busy at that time." "Yes, Ronny is always hard-worked," she replied, contemplating the hills. How lovely they suddenly were! But she couldn't touch them. In front, like a shutter, fell a vision of her married life. She and Ronny would look into the club like this every evening, then drive home to dress; they would see the Lesleys and the Callendars and the Turtons and the Burtons, and invite them and be invited by them, while the true India slid by unnoticed. Colour would remain the pageant of birds in the early morning, brown bodies, white turbans, idols whose flesh was scarlet or blue and movement would remain as long as there were crowds in the bazaar and bathers in the tanks. Perched up on the seat of a dogcart, she would see them. But the force that lies behind colour and movement would escape her even more effectually than it did now. She would see India always as a frieze, never as a spirit, and she assumed that it was a spirit of which Mrs. Moore had had a glimpse. And sure enough they did drive away from the club in a few minutes, and they did dress, and to dinner came Miss Derek and the McBrydes, and the menu was: Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for," said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde it was she who had been the nurse ceased not to exclaim, "Oh, Nancy, how topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look at things like that." Mr. McBryde did not speak much; he seemed nice. When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, there was another interview between mother and son. He wanted her advice and support while resenting interference. "Does Adela talk to you much?" he began. "I'm so driven with work, I don't see her as much as I hoped, but I hope she finds things comfortable." "Adela and I talk mostly about India. Dear, since you mention it, you're quite right you ought to be more alone with her than you are." "Yes, perhaps, but then people'ld gossip." "Well, they must gossip sometime! Let them gossip." "People are so odd out here, and it's not like home one's always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding followed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort." "I don't think Adela	the two new ladies from England had been a great success, and that their politeness in wishing to be Mrs. Bhattacharya's guests had pleased not only her but all Indians who heard of it. It pleased Mr. Fielding also. He scarcely knew the two new ladies, still he decided to tell them what pleasure they had given by their friendliness. He found the younger of them alone. She was looking through a nick in the cactus hedge at the distant Marabar Hills, which had crept near, as was their custom at sunset; if the sunset had lasted long enough, they would have reached the town, but it was swift, being tropical. He gave her his information, and she was so much pleased and thanked him so heartily that he asked her and the other lady to tea. "I'ld like to come very much indeed, and so would Mrs. Moore, I know." "I'm rather a hermit, you know." "Much the best thing to be in this place." "Owing to my work and so on, I don't get up much to the club." "I know, I know, and we never get down from it. I envy you being with Indians." "Do you care to meet one or two?" "Very, very much indeed; it's what I long for. This party to-day makes me so angry and miserable. I think my countrymen out here must be mad. Fancy inviting guests and not treating them properly! You and Mr. Turton and perhaps Mr. McBryde are the only people who showed any common politeness. The rest make me perfectly ashamed, and it's got worse and worse." It had. The Englishmen had intended to play up better, but had been prevented from doing so by their women folk, whom they had to attend, provide with tea, advise about dogs, etc. When tennis began, the barrier grew impenetrable. It had been hoped to have some sets between East and West, but this was forgotten, and the courts were monopolized by the usual club couples. Fielding resented it too, but did not say so to the girl, for he found something theoretical in her outburst. Did she care about Indian music? he enquired; there was an old professor down at the College, who sang. "Oh, just what we wanted to hear. And do you know Doctor Aziz?" "I know all about him. I don't know him. Would you like him asked too?" "Mrs. Moore says he is so nice." "Very well, Miss Quested. Will Thursday suit you?" "Indeed it will, and that morning we go to this Indian lady's. All the nice things are coming Thursday." "I won't ask the City Magistrate to bring you. I know he'll be busy at that time." "Yes, Ronny is always hard-worked," she replied, contemplating the hills. How lovely they suddenly were! But she couldn't touch them. In front, like a shutter, fell a vision of her married life. She and Ronny would look into the club like this every evening, then drive home to dress; they would see the Lesleys and the Callendars and the Turtons and the Burtons, and invite them and be invited by them, while the true India slid by unnoticed. Colour would remain the pageant of birds in the early morning, brown bodies, white turbans, idols whose flesh was scarlet or blue and movement would remain as long as there were crowds in the bazaar and bathers in the tanks. Perched up on the seat of a dogcart, she would see them. But the force that lies behind colour and movement would escape her even more effectually than it did now. She would see India always as a frieze, never as a spirit, and she assumed that it was a spirit of which Mrs. Moore had had a glimpse. And sure enough they did drive away from the club in a few minutes, and they did dress, and to dinner came Miss Derek and the McBrydes, and the menu was: Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for," said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde it was she who had been the nurse ceased not to exclaim, "Oh, Nancy, how topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look at things like that." Mr. McBryde did not speak much; he seemed nice. When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, there was another interview between mother and son. He wanted her advice and support while resenting interference. "Does Adela talk to you much?" he began. "I'm so driven with work, I don't see her as much as I hoped, but I hope she finds things comfortable." "Adela and I talk mostly about India. Dear, since you mention it, you're quite right you ought to be more alone with her than you are." "Yes, perhaps, but then people'ld gossip." "Well, they must gossip sometime! Let them gossip." "People are so odd out here, and it's not like home one's always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding followed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice everything, until they're perfectly sure you're their sort." "I don't think Adela 'll ever be quite their sort she's much too individual." "I know, that's so remarkable about her," he said thoughtfully. Mrs. Moore thought him rather absurd. Accustomed to the privacy of London, she could not realize that India, seemingly so mysterious, contains none, and that consequently the conventions have greater force. "I suppose nothing's on her mind," he continued. "Ask her, ask her yourself, my dear boy." "Probably she's heard tales of the heat, but of course I should pack her off to the Hills every April I'm not one to keep a wife grilling in the Plains." "Oh, it wouldn't be the weather." "There's nothing in India but the weather, my dear mother; it's the Alpha and Omega of the whole affair." "Yes, as Mr. McBryde was saying, but it's much more the Anglo-Indians themselves who are likely to get on Adela's nerves. She doesn't think they behave pleasantly to Indians, you see." "What did I tell you?" he exclaimed, losing his gentle manner. "I knew it last week. Oh, how like a woman to worry over a side-issue!" She forgot about Adela in her surprise. "A side-issue, a side-issue?" she repeated. "How can it be that?" "We're not out here for the purpose of behaving pleasantly!" "What do you mean?" "What I say. We're out here to do justice and keep the peace. Them's my sentiments. India isn't a drawing-room." "Your sentiments are those of a god," she said quietly, but it was his manner rather than his sentiments that annoyed her. Trying to recover his temper, he said, "India likes gods." "And Englishmen like posing as gods." "There's no point in all this. Here we are, and we're going to stop, and the country's got to put up with us, gods or no gods. Oh, look here," he broke out, rather pathetically, "what do you and Adela want me to do? Go against my class, against all the people I respect and admire out here? Lose such power as I have for doing good in this country because my behaviour isn't pleasant? You neither of you understand what work is, or you 'ld never talk such eyewash. I hate talking like this, but one must occasionally. It's morbidly sensitive to go on as Adela and you do. I noticed you both at the club to-day after the Burra Sahib had been at all that trouble to amuse	in the bazaar and bathers in the tanks. Perched up on the seat of a dogcart, she would see them. But the force that lies behind colour and movement would escape her even more effectually than it did now. She would see India always as a frieze, never as a spirit, and she assumed that it was a spirit of which Mrs. Moore had had a glimpse. And sure enough they did drive away from the club in a few minutes, and they did dress, and to dinner came Miss Derek and the McBrydes, and the menu was: Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of the young men and women who had come out before her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set down to the same food and the same ideas, and been snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept to the accredited themes and began to snub others.<\|quote\|>"I should never get like that,"</\|quote\|>she thought, for she was young herself; all the same she knew that she had come up against something that was both insidious and tough, and against which she needed allies. She must gather around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at all events was a nucleus; she should know much better where she stood in the course of the next two days. Miss Derek she companioned a Maharani in a remote Native State. She was genial and gay and made them all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah's motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs' Conference at Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the junction as it came back in the train. She was also very funny about the Bridge Party indeed she regarded the entire peninsula as a comic opera. "If one couldn't see the laughable side of these people one 'ld be done for," said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde it was she who had been the nurse ceased not to exclaim, "Oh, Nancy, how topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look at things like that." Mr. McBryde did not speak much; he seemed nice. When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, there was another interview between mother and son. He wanted her advice and support while resenting interference. "Does Adela talk to you much?" he began. "I'm so	A Passage To India
asked Gregory, wondering.	No speaker	the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously,	safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before	ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have	Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to	to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the	if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you	of, and they _were_ heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands." He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed "But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?' He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face." You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?' "I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion's voice." Why, then, dress up as an _anarchist_, you fool!' "he roared so that the room shook." Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.' "And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and by God! they would let me wheel their perambulators." Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes. "You took me in," he said. "It is really a smart dodge." Then after a pause he added "What do you call this tremendous President of yours?" "We generally call him Sunday," replied Gregory with simplicity. "You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor." He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment. "I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday." The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful	sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes. "You took me in," he said. "It is really a smart dodge." Then after a pause he added "What do you call this tremendous President of yours?" "We generally call him Sunday," replied Gregory with simplicity. "You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor." He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment. "I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?"<\|quote\|>asked Gregory, wondering.</\|quote\|>"Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are	The Man Who Was Thursday
Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.	No speaker	Mas' Don out; and gone."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"I say, Mas' Don, though,	them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being	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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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." "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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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	"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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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	he said. "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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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 mistook." Jem became silent, and for a	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," he said. "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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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 mistook." Jem became silent, and for a long time his fellow-prisoner felt not the slightest inclination to speak. His thoughts were busy over their attempted escape, and the risky task of descending by the rope. Then he thought again of home, and wondered what they would think of him, feeling sure that they would believe him to have behaved badly. His heart ached as he recalled all the past, and how much his present position was due to his own folly and discontent, while, at the end of every scene he evoked, came the thought that no matter how he repented, it was too late--too late! "How are you now, Jem?" he asked once or twice, as he tried to pierce the utter darkness; but there was no answer, and at last he relieved the weariness of his position by moving close up to the wall, so as to lean his back against it, and in this position, despite all his trouble, his head drooped forward till his chin rested upon his chest, and he fell fast asleep for what seemed to him only a few minutes, when he started into wakefulness on feeling himself roughly shaken. "Rouse up, my lad, sharp!" And looking wonderingly about him, he clapped one hand over his eyes to keep off the glare of an open lanthorn. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. ON BOARD. It was a strange experience, and half asleep and confused, Don could hardly make out whether he was one of the captives of the press-gang, or a prisoner being conveyed to gaol in consequence of Mike Bannock's charge. All seemed to be darkness, and the busy gang of armed men about him worked in a silent, furtive way, hurrying their prisoners, of whom, as they all stood together in a kind of yard behind some great gates, there seemed to be about a dozen, some injured, some angry and scowling, and full of complaints and threats now that they were about to be conveyed away; but every angry remonstrance was met by one more severe, and sometimes accompanied by a tap from the butt of a pistol, or a blow given with the hilt or flat of a cutlass. "This here's lively, Mas' Don," said Jem, as he stood beside his companion in misfortune. "I want to speak to the principal officer," said Don, excitedly. "We must not let them drive us off as if we were sheep." "Will you	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."<\|quote\|>Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent.</\|quote\|>"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 mistook." Jem became silent, and for a long time his fellow-prisoner felt not the slightest inclination to speak. His thoughts were busy over their attempted escape, and the risky task of descending by the rope. Then he thought again of home, and wondered what they would think of him, feeling sure that they would believe him to have behaved badly. His heart ached as he recalled all the past, and how much his present position was due to his own folly and	Don Lavington
"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."	Brenda	He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't	about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you	lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North	or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all	came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why	cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I	their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said	cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<\|quote\|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</\|quote\|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going	A Handful Of Dust
"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."	Dr. Aziz	ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny	for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned;	as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble	Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more."	who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good a time as he could, and if they came late or left early that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif embraced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin	there a path off the top?" "Millions of paths, my dear fellow." Fielding could see nothing but the crease. Everywhere else the glaring granite plunged into the earth. "But you saw them get down safe?" "Yes, yes, she and Miss Derek, and go off in the car." "Then the guide came back to you?" "Exactly. Got a cigarette?" "I hope she wasn't ill," pursued the Englishman. The crease continued as a nullah across the plain, the water draining off this way towards the Ganges. "She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend her." "Yes, that sounds sense." "I see you're worrying, let's talk of other things," he said kindly. "Miss Quested was always to do what she wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worrying on my account, but really I don't mind, I never notice trifles." "I do worry on your account. I consider they have been impolite!" said Fielding, lowering his voice. "She had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss Derek had no right to abet her." So touchy as a rule, Aziz was unassailable. The wings that uplifted him did not falter, because he was a Mogul emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good a time as he could, and if they came late or left early that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif embraced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin from the scientific north which troubled the scenery four times a day. As it left the Marabars, their nasty little cosmos disappeared, and gave place to the Marabars seen from a distance, finite and rather romantic. The train halted once under a pump, to drench the stock of coal in its tender. Then it caught sight of the main line in the distance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails were scorching now), and clanked to a stand-still. Chandrapore, Chandrapore! The expedition was over. And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and prepared to enter ordinary life, suddenly the long drawn strangeness of the morning snapped. Mr. Haq, the Inspector of Police, flung open the door of their carriage and said in shrill tones: "Dr. Aziz, it is my highly painful duty to arrest you." "Hullo, some mistake," said Fielding, at once taking charge of the situation. "Sir, they are my instructions. I know nothing." "On what charge do you arrest him?" "I am under instructions not to say." "Don't answer me like that. Produce your warrant." "Sir, excuse me, no warrant is required under these particular circumstances. Refer	racial problem can take subtle forms. In their case it had induced a sort of jealousy, a mutual suspicion. He tried to goad her enthusiasm; she scarcely spoke. Aziz fetched them to breakfast. "It is quite natural about Miss Quested," he remarked, for he had been working the incident a little in his mind, to get rid of its roughnesses. "We were having an interesting talk with our guide, then the car was seen, so she decided to go down to her friend." Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies. "She ran to her friend, I to mine," he went on, smiling. "And now I am with my friends and they are with me and each other, which is happiness." Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. They didn't want to. Fielding thought with hostility, "I knew these women would make trouble," and Mrs. Moore thought, "This man, having missed the train, tries to blame us" "; but her thoughts were feeble; since her faintness in the cave she was sunk in apathy and cynicism. The wonderful India of her opening weeks, with its cool nights and acceptable hints of infinity, had vanished. Fielding ran up to see one cave. He wasn't impressed. Then they got on the elephant and the picnic began to unwind out of the corridor and escaped under the precipice towards the railway station, pursued by stabs of hot air. They came to the place where he had quitted the car. A disagreeable thought now struck him, and he said: "Aziz, exactly where and how did you leave Miss Quested?" "Up there." He indicated the Kawa Dol cheerfully. "But how" A gully, or rather a crease, showed among the rocks at this place; it was scurfy with cactuses. "I suppose the guide helped her." "Oh, rather, most helpful." "Is there a path off the top?" "Millions of paths, my dear fellow." Fielding could see nothing but the crease. Everywhere else the glaring granite plunged into the earth. "But you saw them get down safe?" "Yes, yes, she and Miss Derek, and go off in the car." "Then the guide came back to you?" "Exactly. Got a cigarette?" "I hope she wasn't ill," pursued the Englishman. The crease continued as a nullah across the plain, the water draining off this way towards the Ganges. "She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend her." "Yes, that sounds sense." "I see you're worrying, let's talk of other things," he said kindly. "Miss Quested was always to do what she wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worrying on my account, but really I don't mind, I never notice trifles." "I do worry on your account. I consider they have been impolite!" said Fielding, lowering his voice. "She had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss Derek had no right to abet her." So touchy as a rule, Aziz was unassailable. The wings that uplifted him did not falter, because he was a Mogul emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good a time as he could, and if they came late or left early that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif embraced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin from the scientific north which troubled the scenery four times a day. As it left the Marabars, their nasty little cosmos disappeared, and gave place to the Marabars seen from a distance, finite and rather romantic. The train halted once under a pump, to drench the stock of coal in its tender. Then it caught sight of the main line in the distance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails were scorching now), and clanked to a stand-still. Chandrapore, Chandrapore! The expedition was over. And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and prepared to enter ordinary life, suddenly the long drawn strangeness of the morning snapped. Mr. Haq, the Inspector of Police, flung open the door of their carriage and said in shrill tones: "Dr. Aziz, it is my highly painful duty to arrest you." "Hullo, some mistake," said Fielding, at once taking charge of the situation. "Sir, they are my instructions. I know nothing." "On what charge do you arrest him?" "I am under instructions not to say." "Don't answer me like that. Produce your warrant." "Sir, excuse me, no warrant is required under these particular circumstances. Refer to Mr. McBryde." "Very well, so we will. Come along, Aziz, old man; nothing to fuss about, some blunder." "Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come? a closed conveyance stands in readiness." The young man sobbed his first sound and tried to escape out of the opposite door on to the line. "That will compel me to use force," Mr. Haq wailed. "Oh, for God's sake" cried Fielding, his own nerves breaking under the contagion, and pulled him back before a scandal started, and shook him like a baby. A second later, and he would have been out, whistles blowing, a man-hunt. . . . "Dear fellow, we're coming to McBryde together, and enquire what's gone wrong he's a decent fellow, it's all unintentional . . . he'll apologize. Never, never act the criminal." "My children and my name!" he gasped, his wings broken. "Nothing of the sort. Put your hat straight and take my arm. I'll see you through." "Ah, thank God, he comes," the Inspector exclaimed. They emerged into the midday heat, arm in arm. The station was seething. Passengers and porters rushed out of every recess, many Government servants, more police. Ronny escorted Mrs. Moore. Mohammed Latif began wailing. And before they could make their way through the chaos, Fielding was called off by the authoritative tones of Mr. Turton, and Aziz went on to prison alone. CHAPTER XVII The Collector had watched the arrest from the interior of the waiting-room, and throwing open its perforated doors of zinc, he was now revealed like a god in a shrine. When Fielding entered the doors clapped to, and were guarded by a servant, while a punkah, to mark the importance of the moment, flapped dirty petticoats over their heads. The Collector could not speak at first. His face was white, fanatical, and rather beautiful the expression that all English faces were to wear at Chandrapore for many days. Always brave and unselfish, he was now fused by some white and generous heat; he would have killed himself, obviously, if he had thought it right to do so. He spoke at last. "The worst thing in my whole career has happened," he said. "Miss Quested has been insulted in one of the Marabar caves." "Oh no, oh no, no," gasped the other, feeling sickish. "She escaped by God's grace." "Oh no, no, but not Aziz . . . not Aziz	are with me and each other, which is happiness." Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. They didn't want to. Fielding thought with hostility, "I knew these women would make trouble," and Mrs. Moore thought, "This man, having missed the train, tries to blame us" "; but her thoughts were feeble; since her faintness in the cave she was sunk in apathy and cynicism. The wonderful India of her opening weeks, with its cool nights and acceptable hints of infinity, had vanished. Fielding ran up to see one cave. He wasn't impressed. Then they got on the elephant and the picnic began to unwind out of the corridor and escaped under the precipice towards the railway station, pursued by stabs of hot air. They came to the place where he had quitted the car. A disagreeable thought now struck him, and he said: "Aziz, exactly where and how did you leave Miss Quested?" "Up there." He indicated the Kawa Dol cheerfully. "But how" A gully, or rather a crease, showed among the rocks at this place; it was scurfy with cactuses. "I suppose the guide helped her." "Oh, rather, most helpful." "Is there a path off the top?" "Millions of paths, my dear fellow." Fielding could see nothing but the crease. Everywhere else the glaring granite plunged into the earth. "But you saw them get down safe?" "Yes, yes, she and Miss Derek, and go off in the car." "Then the guide came back to you?" "Exactly. Got a cigarette?" "I hope she wasn't ill," pursued the Englishman. The crease continued as a nullah across the plain, the water draining off this way towards the Ganges. "She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend her." "Yes, that sounds sense." "I see you're worrying, let's talk of other things," he said kindly. "Miss Quested was always to do what she wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worrying on my account, but really I don't mind, I never notice trifles." "I do worry on your account. I consider they have been impolite!" said Fielding, lowering his voice. "She had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss Derek had no right to abet her." So touchy as a rule, Aziz was unassailable. The wings that uplifted him did not falter, because he was a Mogul emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good a time as he could, and if they came late or left early that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif embraced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!"<\|quote\|>"I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it."</\|quote\|>"My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train itself seemed dead though it moved a coffin from the scientific north which troubled the scenery four times a day. As it left the Marabars, their nasty little cosmos disappeared, and gave place to the Marabars seen from a distance, finite and rather romantic. The train halted once under a pump, to drench the stock of coal in its tender. Then it caught sight of the main line in the distance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails were scorching now), and clanked to a stand-still. Chandrapore, Chandrapore! The expedition was over. And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and	A Passage To India
said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.	No speaker	invent that?" "I suppose not,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"But one loses faith in	wouldn t think I d invent that?" "I suppose not,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"But one loses faith in everything after this." "We thought	"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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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." "You are very fond of her, then." "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	for her, said, "Go away." Henry came nearer. He repeated, "Margaret, you look upset again. My dear, give me the keys. What are you doing with Helen?" "Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all." "Manage what?" He stretched out his hand for the keys. She might have obeyed if it had not been for the doctor. "Stop that at least," she said piteously; the doctor had turned back, and was questioning the driver of Helen s cab. A new feeling came over her; she was fighting for women against men. She did not care about rights, but if men came into Howards End, it should be over her body. "Come, this is an odd beginning," said her husband. The doctor came forward now, and whispered two words to Mr. Wilcox--the scandal was out. Sincerely horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth. "I cannot help it," said Margaret. "Do wait. It s not my fault. Please all four of you go away now." Now the flyman was whispering to Crane. "We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox," said the young doctor. "Could you go in and persuade your sister to come out?" "On what grounds?" said Margaret, suddenly looking him straight in the eyes. Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured something about a nervous breakdown. "I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort. You are not qualified to attend my sister, Mr. Mansbridge. If we require your services, we will let you know." "I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish," he retorted. "You could, but you have not. You are, therefore, not qualified to attend my sister." "Come, come, Margaret!" said Henry, never raising his eyes. "This is a terrible business, an appalling business. It s doctor s orders. Open the door." "Forgive me, but I will not." "I don t agree." Margaret was silent. "This business is as broad as it s long," contributed the doctor. "We had better all work together. You need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you." "Quite so," said Henry. "I do not need you in the least," said Margaret. The two men looked at 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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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." "You are very fond of her, then." "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	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,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little.</\|quote\|>"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." "You are very fond of her, then." "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	Howards End
"Yes, I was."	Thomas Gradgrind	me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly,	You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will	him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted	on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he	in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair which all shook at once. "Now, it's a remarkable fact, sir, that	head to foot, "the honour of knowing _you_, but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right." "And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think," said Cupid. "Kidderminster, stow that!" said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance. "Missed his tip." "Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair which all shook at once. "Now, it's a remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man deeper, to know that his daughter knew of his being goosed, than to go through with it." "Good!" interrupted Mr. Bounderby. "This is good, Gradgrind! A man so fond of his daughter, that he runs away from her! This is devilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you what, young man. I haven't always occupied my present station of life. I know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran away from _me_." E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to hear it. "Very well," said Bounderby. "I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There's no family pride about me, there's no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she	It's more than a mile off." Before Mr. Bounderby could reply, a young man appeared at the door, and introducing himself with the words, "By your leaves, gentlemen!" walked in with his hands in his pockets. His face, close-shaven, thin, and sallow, was shaded by a great quantity of dark hair, brushed into a roll all round his head, and parted up the centre. His legs were very robust, but shorter than legs of good proportions should have been. His chest and back were as much too broad, as his legs were too short. He was dressed in a Newmarket coat and tight-fitting trousers; wore a shawl round his neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orange-peel, horses' provender, and sawdust; and looked a most remarkable sort of Centaur, compounded of the stable and the play-house. Where the one began, and the other ended, nobody could have told with any precision. This gentleman was mentioned in the bills of the day as Mr. E. W. B. Childers, so justly celebrated for his daring vaulting act as the Wild Huntsman of the North American Prairies; in which popular performance, a diminutive boy with an old face, who now accompanied him, assisted as his infant son: being carried upside down over his father's shoulder, by one foot, and held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, in the palm of his father's hand, according to the violent paternal manner in which wild huntsmen may be observed to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls, wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal part of the spectators; but in private, where his characteristics were a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy. "By your leaves, gentlemen," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. "It was you, I believe, that were wishing to see Jupe!" "It was," said Mr. Gradgrind. "His daughter has gone to fetch him, but I can't wait; therefore, if you please, I will leave a message for him with you." "You see, my friend," Mr. Bounderby put in, "we are the kind of people who know the value of time, and you are the kind of people who don't know the value of time." "I have not," retorted Mr. Childers, after surveying him from head to foot, "the honour of knowing _you_, but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right." "And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think," said Cupid. "Kidderminster, stow that!" said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance. "Missed his tip." "Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair which all shook at once. "Now, it's a remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man deeper, to know that his daughter knew of his being goosed, than to go through with it." "Good!" interrupted Mr. Bounderby. "This is good, Gradgrind! A man so fond of his daughter, that he runs away from her! This is devilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you what, young man. I haven't always occupied my present station of life. I know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran away from _me_." E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to hear it. "Very well," said Bounderby. "I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There's no family pride about me, there's no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that's what he is, in English." "It's all the same to me what he is or what he is not, whether in English or whether in French," retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. "I am telling your friend what's the fact; if you don't like to hear it, you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own building at least," remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony. "Don't give it mouth in this building, till you're called upon. You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?" "Perhaps so," replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing. "Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?" said Childers. "Because this isn't a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!" Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. "Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind, "why will she never believe it of him?" "Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her," said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the male members of Sleary's company, and was understood to express, that they were always on horseback. "Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her," said Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he looked up from the empty box. "Now, he leaves her without anything to take to." "It is creditable to you, who have never been apprenticed, to express that opinion," returned Mr. Gradgrind, approvingly. "_I_ never apprenticed? I was apprenticed when	may be observed to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls, wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal part of the spectators; but in private, where his characteristics were a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy. "By your leaves, gentlemen," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. "It was you, I believe, that were wishing to see Jupe!" "It was," said Mr. Gradgrind. "His daughter has gone to fetch him, but I can't wait; therefore, if you please, I will leave a message for him with you." "You see, my friend," Mr. Bounderby put in, "we are the kind of people who know the value of time, and you are the kind of people who don't know the value of time." "I have not," retorted Mr. Childers, after surveying him from head to foot, "the honour of knowing _you_, but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right." "And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think," said Cupid. "Kidderminster, stow that!" said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance. "Missed his tip." "Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, I was."</\|quote\|>"Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair which all shook at once. "Now, it's a remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man deeper, to know that his daughter knew of his being goosed, than to go through with it." "Good!" interrupted Mr. Bounderby. "This is good, Gradgrind! A man so fond of his daughter, that he runs away from her! This is devilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you what, young man. I haven't always occupied my present station of life. I know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran away from _me_." E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to hear it. "Very well," said Bounderby. "I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There's no family pride about me, there's no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that's what he is, in English." "It's all the same to me what he is or what he is not, whether in English or whether in French," retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. "I am telling your friend what's the fact; if you don't like to hear it, you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own building at least," remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony. "Don't give it mouth in this building, till you're called upon. You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?" "Perhaps so," replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing. "Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?" said Childers. "Because this isn't a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!" Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. "Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an	Hard Times
"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"	Katharine Hilbery	"Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to	taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said	of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind.	"What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the	was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry. "What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his	made it possible for me to get through, I remember." Sitting down, he drew off his light yellow gloves, and began slapping his knees with them. His vitality was pleasant, Mary thought, although he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh. His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken. "We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery," said Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry. "What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s	had walked that morning, and the sparrows silent in the bare trees. But the lights in her own building soon cheered her; all these different states of mind were submerged in the deep flood of desires, thoughts, perceptions, antagonisms, which washed perpetually at the base of her being, to rise into prominence in turn when the conditions of the upper world were favorable. She put off the hour of clear thought until Christmas, saying to herself, as she lit her fire, that it is impossible to think anything out in London; and, no doubt, Ralph wouldn t come at Christmas, and she would take long walks into the heart of the country, and decide this question and all the others that puzzled her. Meanwhile, she thought, drawing her feet up on to the fender, life was full of complexity; life was a thing one must love to the last fiber of it. She had sat there for five minutes or so, and her thoughts had had time to grow dim, when there came a ring at her bell. Her eye brightened; she felt immediately convinced that Ralph had come to visit her. Accordingly, she waited a moment before opening the door; she wanted to feel her hands secure upon the reins of all the troublesome emotions which the sight of Ralph would certainly arouse. She composed herself unnecessarily, however, for she had to admit, not Ralph, but Katharine and William Rodney. Her first impression was that they were both extremely well dressed. She felt herself shabby and slovenly beside them, and did not know how she should entertain them, nor could she guess why they had come. She had heard nothing of their engagement. But after the first disappointment, she was pleased, for she felt instantly that Katharine was a personality, and, moreover, she need not now exercise her self-control. "We were passing and saw a light in your window, so we came up," Katharine explained, standing and looking very tall and distinguished and rather absent-minded. "We have been to see some pictures," said William. "Oh, dear," he exclaimed, looking about him, "this room reminds me of one of the worst hours in my existence when I read a paper, and you all sat round and jeered at me. Katharine was the worst. I could feel her gloating over every mistake I made. Miss Datchet was kind. Miss Datchet just made it possible for me to get through, I remember." Sitting down, he drew off his light yellow gloves, and began slapping his knees with them. His vitality was pleasant, Mary thought, although he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh. His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken. "We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery," said Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry. "What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble. "I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?" she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out	entertain them, nor could she guess why they had come. She had heard nothing of their engagement. But after the first disappointment, she was pleased, for she felt instantly that Katharine was a personality, and, moreover, she need not now exercise her self-control. "We were passing and saw a light in your window, so we came up," Katharine explained, standing and looking very tall and distinguished and rather absent-minded. "We have been to see some pictures," said William. "Oh, dear," he exclaimed, looking about him, "this room reminds me of one of the worst hours in my existence when I read a paper, and you all sat round and jeered at me. Katharine was the worst. I could feel her gloating over every mistake I made. Miss Datchet was kind. Miss Datchet just made it possible for me to get through, I remember." Sitting down, he drew off his light yellow gloves, and began slapping his knees with them. His vitality was pleasant, Mary thought, although he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh. His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken. "We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery," said Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry. "What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said,<\|quote\|>"one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?"</\|quote\|>Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity	Night And Day
"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"	Hercule Poirot	Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I	he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We	with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find	by saying with a slight effort: "I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?" Poirot bent his head. "It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That	to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family?" "My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure." "He does, does he? That is very interesting very interesting," murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?" A faint cloud passed over John's face. "I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are." The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort: "I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?" Poirot bent his head. "It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all." John looked perplexed. "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast." Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no	told him from the beginning that this obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day. "Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. "You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?" Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung back to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much. Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work, sending telegrams one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard writing notices for the papers, and generally occupying himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails. "May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your investigations point to my mother having died a natural death or or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?" "I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family?" "My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure." "He does, does he? That is very interesting very interesting," murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?" A faint cloud passed over John's face. "I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are." The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort: "I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?" Poirot bent his head. "It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all." John looked perplexed. "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast." Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy. I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man. But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all. And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She	taken her own life? I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own words distracted me. "Come," he said, "now to examine the coffee-cups!" "My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we know about the cocoa?" "Oh, _l l !_ That miserable cocoa!" cried Poirot flippantly. He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible taste. "And, anyway," I said, with increasing coldness, "as Mrs. Inglethorp took her coffee upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect to find, unless you consider it likely that we shall discover a packet of strychnine on the coffee tray!" Poirot was sobered at once. "Come, come, my friend," he said, slipping his arms through mine. "_Ne vous f chez pas!_ Allow me to interest myself in my coffee-cups, and I will respect your cocoa. There! Is it a bargain?" He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we went together to the drawing-room, where the coffee-cups and tray remained undisturbed as we had left them. Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listening very carefully, and verifying the position of the various cups. "So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray and poured out. Yes. Then she came across to the window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Here are the three cups. And the cup on the mantelpiece, half drunk, that would be Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's. And the one on the tray?" "John Cavendish's. I saw him put it down there." "Good. One, two, three, four, five but where, then, is the cup of Mr. Inglethorp?" "He does not take coffee." "Then all are accounted for. One moment, my friend." With infinite care, he took a drop or two from the grounds in each cup, sealing them up in separate test tubes, tasting each in turn as he did so. His physiognomy underwent a curious change. An expression gathered there that I can only describe as half puzzled, and half relieved. "_Bien!_" he said at last. "It is evident! I had an idea but clearly I was mistaken. Yes, altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But no matter!" And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was that was worrying him from his mind. I could have told him from the beginning that this obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day. "Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. "You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?" Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung back to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much. Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work, sending telegrams one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard writing notices for the papers, and generally occupying himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails. "May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your investigations point to my mother having died a natural death or or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?" "I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family?" "My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure." "He does, does he? That is very interesting very interesting," murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?" A faint cloud passed over John's face. "I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are." The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort: "I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?" Poirot bent his head. "It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all." John looked perplexed. "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast." Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy. I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man. But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all. And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly: "Yes, I've got the most beastly headache." "Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot solicitously. "It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the _mal de t te_." He jumped up and took her cup. "No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs. "No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?" "No, I never take it in coffee." "_Sacr !_" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup. Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted _my_ attention. In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared. "Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John. I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night before. John rose immediately. "Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer," he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?" We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot: "There will be an inquest then?" Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused. "What is it? You are not attending to what I say." "It is true, my friend. I am much worried." "Why?" "Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee." "What? You cannot be serious?" "But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right." "What instinct?" "The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. _Chut!_ no more now!" We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us. Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained	papers, and generally occupying himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails. "May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your investigations point to my mother having died a natural death or or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?" "I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family?" "My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure." "He does, does he? That is very interesting very interesting," murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?" A faint cloud passed over John's face. "I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are." The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort: "I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?" Poirot bent his head. "It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!" Poirot nodded sympathetically. "I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?" "Yes."<\|quote\|>"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten that he did not take it after all?"</\|quote\|>"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now." Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all." John looked perplexed. "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast." Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy. I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man. But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all. And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly: "Yes, I've got the	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"	Josiah Bounderby	of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en	unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln;	Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard	his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be	lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!" In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone	gone home, many's the time, and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha' dun 't not once, not twice twenty time!" Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone. "From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th' brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction." "I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!" In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people. "I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say" "This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If I do her any hurt, sir, there's	that, beforehand." "No, sir, sure I ha' not coom for nowt o' th' kind." Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably surprised, notwithstanding his previous strong conviction. "Very well," he returned. "You're a steady Hand, and I was not mistaken. Now, let me hear what it's all about. As it's not that, let me hear what it is. What have you got to say? Out with it, lad!" Stephen happened to glance towards Mrs. Sparsit. "I can go, Mr. Bounderby, if you wish it," said that self-sacrificing lady, making a feint of taking her foot out of the stirrup. Mr. Bounderby stayed her, by holding a mouthful of chop in suspension before swallowing it, and putting out his left hand. Then, withdrawing his hand and swallowing his mouthful of chop, he said to Stephen: "Now you know, this good lady is a born lady, a high lady. You are not to suppose because she keeps my house for me, that she hasn't been very high up the tree ah, up at the top of the tree! Now, if you have got anything to say that can't be said before a born lady, this lady will leave the room. If what you have got to say _can_ be said before a born lady, this lady will stay where she is." "Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say, not fitten for a born lady to year, sin' I were born mysen'," was the reply, accompanied with a slight flush. "Very well," said Mr. Bounderby, pushing away his plate, and leaning back. "Fire away!" "I ha' coom," Stephen began, raising his eyes from the floor, after a moment's consideration, "to ask yo yor advice. I need 't overmuch. I were married on Eas'r Monday nineteen year sin, long and dree. She were a young lass pretty enow wi' good accounts of herseln. Well! She went bad soon. Not along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind husband to her." "I have heard all this before," said Mr. Bounderby. "She took to drinking, left off working, sold the furniture, pawned the clothes, and played old Gooseberry." "I were patient wi' her." (" "The more fool you, I think," said Mr. Bounderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.) "I were very patient wi' her. I tried to wean her fra 't ower and ower agen. I tried this, I tried that, I tried t'other. I ha' gone home, many's the time, and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha' dun 't not once, not twice twenty time!" Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone. "From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th' brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction." "I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!" In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people. "I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say" "This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I flee from her, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I was to live wi' her an' not marry her saying such a thing could be, which it never could or would, an' her so good there's a law to punish me, in every innocent child belonging to me?" "Of course there is." "Now, a' God's name," said Stephen Blackpool, "show me the law to help me!" "Hem! There's a sanctity in this relation of life," said Mr. Bounderby, "and and it must be kept up." "No no, dunnot say that, sir. 'Tan't kep' up that way. Not that way. 'Tis kep' down that way. I'm a weaver, I were in a fact'ry when a chilt, but I ha' gotten een to see wi' and eern to year wi'. I read in th' papers every 'Sizes, every Sessions and you read too I know it! with dismay how th' supposed unpossibility o' ever getting unchained from one another, at any price, on any terms, brings blood upon this land, and brings many common married fok to battle, murder, and sudden death. Let us ha' this, right understood. Mine's a grievous case, an' I want if yo will be so good t' know the law that helps me." "Now, I tell you what!" said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets. "There _is_ such a law." Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, and never wandering in his attention, gave a nod. "But it's not for you at all. It costs money. It costs a mint of money." "How much might that be?" Stephen calmly asked. "Why, you'd have to go to Doctors' Commons with a suit, and you'd have to go to a court of Common Law with a suit, and you'd have to go to the House of Lords with a suit, and you'd have to get an Act of Parliament to enable you to marry again, and it would cost you (if it was a case of very plain sailing), I suppose from a thousand to fifteen hundred pound," said Mr. Bounderby. "Perhaps twice the money." "There's no other law?" "Certainly not." "Why then, sir," said Stephen, turning white, and motioning with that right hand of his,	netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction." "I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!" In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit.<\|quote\|>"You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?"</\|quote\|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people. "I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say" "This	Hard Times
"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."	Brett Ashley	Couldn't we just live together?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"I stand it now." "That	"Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just live together?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"I stand it now." "That would be different. It's my	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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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	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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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	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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "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	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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "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.	she was, perhaps, a little--" She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. "I'll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is tr s, tr s gentille. She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see." "They did not leave any word?" "Yes. They said they would be back in an hour." "Send them up when they come." "Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is some one. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu'une, quelqu'une!" The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris race-courses. Her life-work lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great pride 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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "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	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?"<\|quote\|>"I don't think so. I'd just _tromper_ you with everybody. You couldn't stand it."</\|quote\|>"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." "Oh, you know as well as I do. Don't be obstinate, darling." "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	The Sun Also Rises
"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"	Alice	any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't	wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to	down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice	Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"	to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the	as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have	get to," said the Cat. "I don't much care where--" said Alice. "Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat. "--so long as I get _somewhere_," Alice added as an explanation. "Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough." Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. "What sort of people live about here?" "In _that_ direction," the Cat said, waving its right paw round, "lives a Hatter: and in _that_ direction," waving the other paw, "lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad." "But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on "And how do you know that you're mad?" "To begin with," said the Cat, "a dog's not mad. You grant that?" "I suppose so," said Alice. "Well, then," the Cat went on, "you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now _I_ growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad." "_I_ call it purring, not growling," said Alice. "Call it what you like," said the Cat. "Do you play croquet with the Queen to-day?" "I should like it very much," said Alice, "but I haven't been invited yet." "You'll see me there," said the Cat, and vanished. Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again. "By-the-bye, what became of the baby?" said the Cat. "I'd nearly forgotten to ask." "It turned into a pig," Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way. "I thought it would," said the Cat, and vanished again. Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. "I've seen hatters before," she said to herself; "the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock	been invited yet." "You'll see me there," said the Cat, and vanished. Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again. "By-the-bye, what became of the baby?" said the Cat. "I'd nearly forgotten to ask." "It turned into a pig," Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way. "I thought it would," said the Cat, and vanished again. Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. "I've seen hatters before," she said to herself; "the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare.<\|quote\|>"Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,"</\|quote\|>said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
said the captain,	No speaker	companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is	taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads;	Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that	man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should	voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more.	flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures." "Jem!" said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion's words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; "it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace." "Hush, hush, my lad! Don't take it	they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures." "Jem!" said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion's words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; "it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace." "Hush, hush, my lad! Don't take it that way. They arn't so werry heavy, and they don't hurt much." "Hurt? Not hurt much? Why, they are treating us as if we were thieves." "What, being ironed, sir? Well, it do seem a bit hard." "It's cruel! It's horrible! And he had no right to do it for such an offence." "Steady, my lad, steady. The sentry 'll hear you, and have his turn, p'r'aps, at telling tales." "But he had no right to do this, I say." "P'r'aps not, Mas' Don; but skippers does just what they please when they're out at sea in war time. I thought he was going to hang us once." "He would not dare," said Don. "Well, if he did, I should have liked to have a few words first with Mr Ramsden; for of all the mean, dirty, sneaking chaps I ever set eyes on, he's about the worst." "A mean, cowardly spy!" cried Don. "Ah, that's it; so he is, Mas' Don; a mean, cowardly spy. I couldn't think o' them words, but they're just what he is.--Say, Mas' Don." "Don't, don't, don't, Jem." "Don't what, Mas' Don?" "Don't do that. _Master Don_. It sounds so foolish, and it's ridiculous, seeing what we are." "All right, my lad, I'll be careful; but what I wanted to say was, would there be any harm in taking Master Ramsden by his waistband, and dropping him some night over into the sea?" "Do you want to commit murder, Jem?" "Do I want to commit murder? Nay, Mas' Don, gently, gently; don't talk to a man like that. I only meant to give him a ducking." "Amongst the sharks?" "Ugh! I forgot all about the sharks, Mas' Don. I say, think there are many of 'em about?" "They say there are plenty, and we saw a monster, Jem." "So we did, my lad; so we did, and a nice lot o' worry he's got us in through stealing that boathook. But, look here, how do you feel now?" "Heart-sick and tired of it all, Jem. I wish we had run off when we had the chance." "You do?" "I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad--too bad." "Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as	Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come,"<\|quote\|>said the captain,</\|quote\|>"I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never	Don Lavington
said she,	No speaker	better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls."	from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;"	route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the	coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it	enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish." There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr. Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there. "Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?" "--was a question, however, which did not augur much.	man believed they were gone to Hartfield. "This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, "How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish." There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr. Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there. "Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?" "--was a question, however, which did not augur much. But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time. The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was to think of her at four. "My dear, dear anxious friend," "--said she, in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right." The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. "'Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon." She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's being a day before his	Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility. Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating. She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had been talked almost all the time--till just at last, when Mrs. Martin's saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that very room she had been measured last September, with her two friends. There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window. _He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour, the party, the occasion--to feel the same consciousness, the same regrets--to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and they were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months ago!--Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a _little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she have done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent. They must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary. It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither "master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield. "This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, "How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish." There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr. Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there. "Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?" "--was a question, however, which did not augur much. But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time. The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was to think of her at four. "My dear, dear anxious friend," "--said she, in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right." The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. "'Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon." She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure. The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually before her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be. He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day. "I told you yesterday," cried Mr. Weston with exultation, "I told you all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs." "It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it," said the young man, "though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far; but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing." The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency. Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it	ago!--Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a _little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she have done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent. They must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary. It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither "master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield. "This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, "How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish." There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston,"<\|quote\|>said she,</\|quote\|>"we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;" "--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:" "--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr. Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there. "Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?" "--was a question, however, which did not augur much. But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time. The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was to think of her at four. "My dear, dear anxious friend," "--said she, in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right." The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. "'Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon." She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father--Mr.	Emma
"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"	Catherine Morland	it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take	got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent,	have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss	you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of	feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else." "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?" "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse." "And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?" "Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite	over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure. When they arrived at Mrs. Allen s door, the astonishment of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the house: "Past three o clock!" It was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother s, nor the servant s; she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer _then_, would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend s dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else." "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?" "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse." "And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?" "Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection, however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her when her mother died." "And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?" "I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is; but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely to do very well." Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most particularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with both brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as it was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had lost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very pleasant and that John	people who seldom aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented with a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit therefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to her that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily preserve them, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own concerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his companions together; and described to her some famous day s sport, with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many. Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for he was Isabella s brother; and she had been assured by James that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure. When they arrived at Mrs. Allen s door, the astonishment of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the house: "Past three o clock!" It was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother s, nor the servant s; she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer _then_, would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend s dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else." "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?" "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse." "And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?" "Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection, however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her when her mother died." "And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?" "I cannot be quite positive about that, my dear; I have some idea he is; but, however, he is a very fine young man, Mrs. Hughes says, and likely to do very well." Catherine inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most particularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with both brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance, nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as it was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had lost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable. CHAPTER 10 The Allens, Thorpes, and Morlands all met in the evening at the theatre; and, as Catherine and Isabella sat together, there was then an opportunity for the latter to utter some few of the many thousand things which had been collecting within her for communication in the immeasurable length of time which had divided them. "Oh, heavens! My beloved Catherine, have I got you at last?" was her address on Catherine s entering the box and sitting by her. "Now, Mr. Morland," for he was close to her on the other side, "I shall not speak another word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you not to expect it. My sweetest Catherine, how have you been this long age? But I need not ask you, for you look delightfully. You really have done your hair in a more heavenly style than ever; you mischievous creature, do you want to attract everybody? I assure you, my brother is quite in love with you already; and as for Mr. Tilney but _that_ is a settled thing even _your_ modesty cannot doubt his attachment now; his coming back to Bath makes it too plain. Oh! What would not I give to see him! I really am quite wild with impatience. My mother says he is the most delightful young man in the world; she saw him this morning, you know; you must introduce him to me. Is he in the house now? Look about, for heaven s sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist till I see him." "No," said Catherine, "he is not here; I cannot see him anywhere." "Oh, horrid! Am I never to be acquainted with him? How do you like my gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own thought. Do you know, I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you are	in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many. Little as Catherine was in the habit of judging for herself, and unfixed as were her general notions of what men ought to be, she could not entirely repress a doubt, while she bore with the effusions of his endless conceit, of his being altogether completely agreeable. It was a bold surmise, for he was Isabella s brother; and she had been assured by James that his manners would recommend him to all her sex; but in spite of this, the extreme weariness of his company, which crept over her before they had been out an hour, and which continued unceasingly to increase till they stopped in Pulteney Street again, induced her, in some small degree, to resist such high authority, and to distrust his powers of giving universal pleasure. When they arrived at Mrs. Allen s door, the astonishment of Isabella was hardly to be expressed, on finding that it was too late in the day for them to attend her friend into the house: "Past three o clock!" It was inconceivable, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother s, nor the servant s; she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer _then_, would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so swiftly before, as Catherine was called on to confirm; Catherine could not tell a falsehood even to please Isabella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend s dissenting voice, by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go directly home. It was ages since she had had a moment s conversation with her dearest Catherine; and, though she had such thousands of things to say to her, it appeared as if they were never to be together again; so, with smiles of most exquisite misery, and the laughing eye of utter despondency, she bade her friend adieu and went on. Catherine found Mrs. Allen just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning, and was immediately greeted with, "Well, my dear, here you are," a truth which she had no greater inclination than power to dispute; "and I hope you have had a pleasant airing?" "Yes, ma am, I thank you; we could not have had a nicer day." "So Mrs. Thorpe said; she was vastly pleased at your all going." "You have seen Mrs. Thorpe, then?" "Yes, I went to the pump-room as soon as you were gone, and there I met her, and we had a great deal of talk together. She says there was hardly any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."<\|quote\|>"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"</\|quote\|>"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney walking with her." "Did you indeed? And did they speak to you?" "Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem very agreeable people. Miss Tilney was in a very pretty spotted muslin, and I fancy, by what I can learn, that she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a great deal about the family." "And what did she tell you of them?" "Oh! A vast deal indeed; she hardly talked of anything else." "Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?" "Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and, when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds, and five hundred to buy wedding-clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they came from the warehouse." "And are Mr. and Mrs. Tilney in Bath?" "Yes, I fancy they are, but I am not quite certain. Upon recollection, however, I have a notion they are both dead; at least the mother is; yes, I am sure Mrs. Tilney is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me there was a very beautiful set of pearls that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter on her wedding-day and that Miss Tilney has got now, for they were put by for her when her mother died." "And is Mr. Tilney, my partner, the only son?" "I	Northanger Abbey
In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.	No speaker	want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do	lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro	said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It	said. "I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a	I said to Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit." "I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right." "You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad." "She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her." "I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said. "I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen. "You go to the bull-fight," he said in English. "You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot.	over to the Iru a. It had filled up, and as the time for the bull-fight came it got fuller, and the tables were crowded closer. There was a close, crowded hum that came every day before the bull-fight. The caf did not make this same noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was. This hum went on, and we were in it and a part of it. I had taken six seats for all the fights. Three of them were barreras, the first row at the ring-side, and three were sobrepuertos, seats with wooden backs, half-way up the amphitheatre. Mike thought Brett had best sit high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to sit with them. Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and I gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell. Bill said something to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the horses. Bill had seen one season of bull-fights. "I'm not worried about how I'll stand it. I'm only afraid I may be bored," Cohn said. "You think so?" "Don't look at the horses, after the bull hits them," I said to Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit." "I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right." "You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad." "She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her." "I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said. "I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen. "You go to the bull-fight," he said in English. "You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot. "No," he answered, and smiled. One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?" We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door. "He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked. "He's a good-looking kid," I said. "He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type." "He's a fine boy." "We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya said. We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went down-stairs. It was a good bull-light. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had	was too late. I put on a coat of Cohn's and went out on the balcony. Down below the narrow street was empty. All the balconies were crowded with people. Suddenly a crowd came down the street. They were all running, packed close together. They passed along and up the street toward the bull-ring and behind them came more men running faster, and then some stragglers who were really running. Behind them was a little bare space, and then the bulls galloping, tossing their heads up and down. It all went out of sight around the corner. One man fell, rolled to the gutter, and lay quiet. But the bulls went right on and did not notice him. They were all running together. After they went out of sight a great roar came from the bull-ring. It kept on. Then finally the pop of the rocket that meant the bulls had gotten through the people in the ring and into the corrals. I went back in the room and got into bed. I had been standing on the stone balcony in bare feet. I knew our crowd must have all been out at the bull-ring. Back in bed, I went to sleep. Cohn woke me when he came in. He started to undress and went over and closed the window because the people on the balcony of the house just across the street were looking in. "Did you see the show?" I asked. "Yes. We were all there." "Anybody get hurt?" "One of the bulls got into the crowd in the ring and tossed six or eight people." "How did Brett like it?" "It was all so sudden there wasn't any time for it to bother anybody." "I wish I'd been up." "We didn't know where you were. We went to your room but it was locked." "Where did you stay up?" "We danced at some club." "I got sleepy," I said. "My gosh! I'm sleepy now," Cohn said. "Doesn't this thing ever stop?" "Not for a week." Bill opened the door and put his head in. "Where were you, Jake?" "I saw them go through from the balcony. How was it?" "Grand." "Where you going?" "To sleep." No one was up before noon. We ate at tables set out under the arcade. The town was full of people. We had to wait for a table. After lunch we went over to the Iru a. It had filled up, and as the time for the bull-fight came it got fuller, and the tables were crowded closer. There was a close, crowded hum that came every day before the bull-fight. The caf did not make this same noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was. This hum went on, and we were in it and a part of it. I had taken six seats for all the fights. Three of them were barreras, the first row at the ring-side, and three were sobrepuertos, seats with wooden backs, half-way up the amphitheatre. Mike thought Brett had best sit high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to sit with them. Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and I gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell. Bill said something to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the horses. Bill had seen one season of bull-fights. "I'm not worried about how I'll stand it. I'm only afraid I may be bored," Cohn said. "You think so?" "Don't look at the horses, after the bull hits them," I said to Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit." "I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right." "You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad." "She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her." "I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said. "I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen. "You go to the bull-fight," he said in English. "You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot. "No," he answered, and smiled. One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?" We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door. "He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked. "He's a good-looking kid," I said. "He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type." "He's a fine boy." "We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya said. We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went down-stairs. It was a good bull-light. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had killed his first bull Montoya caught my eye and nodded his head. This was a real one. There had not been a real one for a long time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was passable. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much. Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How	up before noon. We ate at tables set out under the arcade. The town was full of people. We had to wait for a table. After lunch we went over to the Iru a. It had filled up, and as the time for the bull-fight came it got fuller, and the tables were crowded closer. There was a close, crowded hum that came every day before the bull-fight. The caf did not make this same noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was. This hum went on, and we were in it and a part of it. I had taken six seats for all the fights. Three of them were barreras, the first row at the ring-side, and three were sobrepuertos, seats with wooden backs, half-way up the amphitheatre. Mike thought Brett had best sit high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to sit with them. Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and I gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell. Bill said something to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he would not mind the horses. Bill had seen one season of bull-fights. "I'm not worried about how I'll stand it. I'm only afraid I may be bored," Cohn said. "You think so?" "Don't look at the horses, after the bull hits them," I said to Brett. "Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off, but then don't look again until the horse is dead if it's been hit." "I'm a little nervy about it," Brett said. "I'm worried whether I'll be able to go through with it all right." "You'll be all right. There's nothing but that horse part that will bother you, and they're only in for a few minutes with each bull. Just don't watch when it's bad." "She'll be all right," Mike said. "I'll look after her." "I don't think you'll be bored," Bill said. "I'm going over to the hotel to get the glasses and the wine-skin," I said. "See you back here. Don't get cock-eyed." "I'll come along," Bill said. Brett smiled at us. We walked around through the arcade to avoid the heat of the square. "That Cohn gets me," Bill said. "He's got this Jewish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion he'll get out of the fight will be being bored." "We'll watch him with the glasses," I said. "Oh, to hell with him!" "He spends a lot of time there." "I want him to stay there."<\|quote\|>In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya.</\|quote\|>"Come on," said Montoya. "Do you want to meet Pedro Romero?" "Fine," said Bill. "Let's go see him." We followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen. "You go to the bull-fight," he said in English. "You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot. "No," he answered, and smiled. One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?" We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door. "He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked. "He's a good-looking kid," I said. "He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type." "He's a fine boy." "We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya	The Sun Also Rises
she cried to him,	No speaker	looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't	with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo'	worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have	his hopes, but Kitty rose. The ingratiating "N' Yawker" was aghast. "Oh, let 'em stay," said Mrs. Jones heartily; "a little beer ain't goin' to hurt 'em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain't none the worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have that fellah down that plays 'Rag-time.' He 's out o' sight, I tell you." With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas. "I say, that 's singin' now, I	beer, and a half-dozen crabs in a bag. "Thought I 'd bring home something to chew. I always like to eat something with my beer." Mrs. Jones brought in the glasses, and the young man filled one and turned to Kitty. "No, thanks," she said with a surprised look. "What, don't you drink beer? Oh, come now, you 'll get out o' that." "Kitty don't drink no beer," broke in her mother with mild resentment. "I drinks it sometimes, but she don't. I reckon maybe de chillen better go to bed." Joe felt as if the "chillen" had ruined all his hopes, but Kitty rose. The ingratiating "N' Yawker" was aghast. "Oh, let 'em stay," said Mrs. Jones heartily; "a little beer ain't goin' to hurt 'em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain't none the worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have that fellah down that plays 'Rag-time.' He 's out o' sight, I tell you." With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas. "I say, that 's singin' now, I tell you," he cried. "You ought to have some o' the new songs. D' jever hear 'Baby, you got to leave'? I tell you, that 's a hot one. I 'll bring you some of 'em. Why, you could git a job on the stage easy with that voice o' yourn. I got a frien' in one o' the comp'nies an' I 'll speak to him about you." "You ought to git Mr. Thomas to take you to the th'atre some night. He goes lots." "Why, yes, what 's the matter with to-morrer night? There 's a good coon show	for me." "La, Thomas," Mrs. Jones put in, "how you do run on! Why, the strangers 'll think they 'll be talked to death before they have time to breathe." "Oh, I guess the folks understan' me. I 'm one o' them kin' o' men 'at believe in whooping things up right from the beginning. I 'm never strange with anybody. I 'm a N' Yawker, I tell you, from the word go. I say, Mis' Jones, let 's have some beer, an' we 'll have some music purty soon. There 's a fellah in the house 'at plays 'Rag-time' out o' sight." Mr. Thomas took the pail and went to the corner. As he left the room, Mrs. Jones slapped her knee and laughed until her bust shook like jelly. "Mr. Thomas is a case, sho'," she said; "but he likes you all, an' I 'm mighty glad of it, fu' he 's mighty curious about the house when he don't like the roomers." Joe felt distinctly flattered, for he found their new acquaintance charming. His mother was still a little doubtful, and Kitty was sure she found the young man "fresh." He came in pretty soon with his beer, and a half-dozen crabs in a bag. "Thought I 'd bring home something to chew. I always like to eat something with my beer." Mrs. Jones brought in the glasses, and the young man filled one and turned to Kitty. "No, thanks," she said with a surprised look. "What, don't you drink beer? Oh, come now, you 'll get out o' that." "Kitty don't drink no beer," broke in her mother with mild resentment. "I drinks it sometimes, but she don't. I reckon maybe de chillen better go to bed." Joe felt as if the "chillen" had ruined all his hopes, but Kitty rose. The ingratiating "N' Yawker" was aghast. "Oh, let 'em stay," said Mrs. Jones heartily; "a little beer ain't goin' to hurt 'em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain't none the worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have that fellah down that plays 'Rag-time.' He 's out o' sight, I tell you." With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas. "I say, that 's singin' now, I tell you," he cried. "You ought to have some o' the new songs. D' jever hear 'Baby, you got to leave'? I tell you, that 's a hot one. I 'll bring you some of 'em. Why, you could git a job on the stage easy with that voice o' yourn. I got a frien' in one o' the comp'nies an' I 'll speak to him about you." "You ought to git Mr. Thomas to take you to the th'atre some night. He goes lots." "Why, yes, what 's the matter with to-morrer night? There 's a good coon show in town. Out o' sight. Let 's all go." "I ain't nevah been to nothin' lak dat, an' I don't know," said Mrs. Hamilton. "Aw, come, I 'll git the tickets an' we 'll all go. Great singin', you know. What d' you say?" The mother hesitated, and Joe filled the breach. "We 'd all like to go," he said. "Ma, we' ll go if you ain't too tired." "Tired? Pshaw, you 'll furgit all about your tiredness when Smithkins gits on the stage. Y' ought to hear him sing," 'I bin huntin' fu' wo'k'! "You 'd die laughing." Mrs. Hamilton made no further demur, and the matter was closed. Awhile later the "Rag-time" man came down and gave them a sample of what they were to hear the next night. Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Jones two-stepped, and they sent a boy after some more beer. Joe found it a very jolly evening, but Kit's and the mother's hearts were heavy as they went up to bed. "Say," said Mr. Thomas when they had gone, "that little girl 's a peach, you bet; a little green, I guess, but she 'll ripen in the sun." VIII AN EVENING OUT Fannie	emotions, however, troubled Kit's mind. She too stood at the windows and looked down into the street. There was a sort of complacent calm in the manner in which she viewed the girls' hats and dresses. Many of them were really pretty, she told herself, but for the most part they were not better than what she had had down home. There was a sound quality in the girl's make-up that helped her to see through the glamour of mere place and recognise worth for itself. Or it may have been the critical faculty, which is prominent in most women, that kept her from thinking a five-cent cheese-cloth any better in New York than it was at home. She had a certain self-respect which made her value herself and her own traditions higher than her brother did his. When later in the evening the porter who had been kind to them came in and was introduced as Mr. William Thomas, young as she was, she took his open admiration for her with more coolness than Joe exhibited when Thomas offered to show him something of the town some day or night. Mr. Thomas was a loquacious little man with a confident air born of an intense admiration of himself. He was the idol of a number of servant-girls' hearts, and altogether a decidedly dashing back-area-way Don Juan. "I tell you, Miss Kitty," he burst forth, a few minutes after being introduced, "they ain't no use talkin', N' Yawk 'll give you a shakin' up 'at you won't soon forget. It 's the only town on the face of the earth. You kin bet your life they ain't no flies on N' Yawk. We git the best shows here, we git the best concerts--say, now, what 's the use o' my callin' it all out?--we simply git the best of everything." "Great place," said Joe wisely, in what he thought was going to be quite a man-of-the-world manner. But he burned with shame the next minute because his voice sounded so weak and youthful. Then too the oracle only said "Yes" to him, and went on expatiating to Kitty on the glories of the metropolis. "D'jever see the statue o' Liberty? Great thing, the statue o' Liberty. I 'll take you 'round some day. An' Cooney Island--oh, my, now that 's the place; and talk about fun! That 's the place for me." "La, Thomas," Mrs. Jones put in, "how you do run on! Why, the strangers 'll think they 'll be talked to death before they have time to breathe." "Oh, I guess the folks understan' me. I 'm one o' them kin' o' men 'at believe in whooping things up right from the beginning. I 'm never strange with anybody. I 'm a N' Yawker, I tell you, from the word go. I say, Mis' Jones, let 's have some beer, an' we 'll have some music purty soon. There 's a fellah in the house 'at plays 'Rag-time' out o' sight." Mr. Thomas took the pail and went to the corner. As he left the room, Mrs. Jones slapped her knee and laughed until her bust shook like jelly. "Mr. Thomas is a case, sho'," she said; "but he likes you all, an' I 'm mighty glad of it, fu' he 's mighty curious about the house when he don't like the roomers." Joe felt distinctly flattered, for he found their new acquaintance charming. His mother was still a little doubtful, and Kitty was sure she found the young man "fresh." He came in pretty soon with his beer, and a half-dozen crabs in a bag. "Thought I 'd bring home something to chew. I always like to eat something with my beer." Mrs. Jones brought in the glasses, and the young man filled one and turned to Kitty. "No, thanks," she said with a surprised look. "What, don't you drink beer? Oh, come now, you 'll get out o' that." "Kitty don't drink no beer," broke in her mother with mild resentment. "I drinks it sometimes, but she don't. I reckon maybe de chillen better go to bed." Joe felt as if the "chillen" had ruined all his hopes, but Kitty rose. The ingratiating "N' Yawker" was aghast. "Oh, let 'em stay," said Mrs. Jones heartily; "a little beer ain't goin' to hurt 'em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain't none the worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have that fellah down that plays 'Rag-time.' He 's out o' sight, I tell you." With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas. "I say, that 's singin' now, I tell you," he cried. "You ought to have some o' the new songs. D' jever hear 'Baby, you got to leave'? I tell you, that 's a hot one. I 'll bring you some of 'em. Why, you could git a job on the stage easy with that voice o' yourn. I got a frien' in one o' the comp'nies an' I 'll speak to him about you." "You ought to git Mr. Thomas to take you to the th'atre some night. He goes lots." "Why, yes, what 's the matter with to-morrer night? There 's a good coon show in town. Out o' sight. Let 's all go." "I ain't nevah been to nothin' lak dat, an' I don't know," said Mrs. Hamilton. "Aw, come, I 'll git the tickets an' we 'll all go. Great singin', you know. What d' you say?" The mother hesitated, and Joe filled the breach. "We 'd all like to go," he said. "Ma, we' ll go if you ain't too tired." "Tired? Pshaw, you 'll furgit all about your tiredness when Smithkins gits on the stage. Y' ought to hear him sing," 'I bin huntin' fu' wo'k'! "You 'd die laughing." Mrs. Hamilton made no further demur, and the matter was closed. Awhile later the "Rag-time" man came down and gave them a sample of what they were to hear the next night. Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Jones two-stepped, and they sent a boy after some more beer. Joe found it a very jolly evening, but Kit's and the mother's hearts were heavy as they went up to bed. "Say," said Mr. Thomas when they had gone, "that little girl 's a peach, you bet; a little green, I guess, but she 'll ripen in the sun." VIII AN EVENING OUT Fannie Hamilton, tired as she was, sat long into the night with her little family discussing New York,--its advantages and disadvantages, its beauty and its ugliness, its morality and immorality. She had somewhat receded from her first position, that it was better being here in the great strange city than being at home where the very streets shamed them. She had not liked the way that their fellow lodger looked at Kitty. It was bold, to say the least. She was not pleased, either, with their new acquaintance's familiarity. And yet, he had said no more than some stranger, if there could be such a stranger, would have said down home. There was a difference, however, which she recognised. Thomas was not the provincial who puts every one on a par with himself, nor was he the metropolitan who complacently patronises the whole world. He was trained out of the one and not up to the other. The intermediate only succeeded in being offensive. Mrs. Jones' assurance as to her guest's fine qualities did not do all that might have been expected to reassure Mrs. Hamilton in the face of the difficulties of the gentleman's manner. She could not, however, lay her finger on any particular point that would give her the reason for rejecting his friendly advances. She got ready the next evening to go to the theatre with the rest. Mr. Thomas at once possessed himself of Kitty and walked on ahead, leaving Joe to accompany his mother and Mrs. Jones,--an arrangement, by the way, not altogether to that young gentleman's taste. A good many men bowed to Thomas in the street, and they turned to look enviously after him. At the door of the theatre they had to run the gantlet of a dozen pairs of eyes. Here, too, the party's guide seemed to be well known, for some one said, before they passed out of hearing, "I wonder who that little light girl is that Thomas is with to-night? He 's a hot one for you." Mrs. Hamilton had been in a theatre but once before in her life, and Joe and Kit but a few times oftener. On those occasions they had sat far up in the peanut gallery in the place reserved for people of colour. This was not a pleasant, cleanly, nor beautiful locality, and by contrast with it, even the garishness of the	one o' them kin' o' men 'at believe in whooping things up right from the beginning. I 'm never strange with anybody. I 'm a N' Yawker, I tell you, from the word go. I say, Mis' Jones, let 's have some beer, an' we 'll have some music purty soon. There 's a fellah in the house 'at plays 'Rag-time' out o' sight." Mr. Thomas took the pail and went to the corner. As he left the room, Mrs. Jones slapped her knee and laughed until her bust shook like jelly. "Mr. Thomas is a case, sho'," she said; "but he likes you all, an' I 'm mighty glad of it, fu' he 's mighty curious about the house when he don't like the roomers." Joe felt distinctly flattered, for he found their new acquaintance charming. His mother was still a little doubtful, and Kitty was sure she found the young man "fresh." He came in pretty soon with his beer, and a half-dozen crabs in a bag. "Thought I 'd bring home something to chew. I always like to eat something with my beer." Mrs. Jones brought in the glasses, and the young man filled one and turned to Kitty. "No, thanks," she said with a surprised look. "What, don't you drink beer? Oh, come now, you 'll get out o' that." "Kitty don't drink no beer," broke in her mother with mild resentment. "I drinks it sometimes, but she don't. I reckon maybe de chillen better go to bed." Joe felt as if the "chillen" had ruined all his hopes, but Kitty rose. The ingratiating "N' Yawker" was aghast. "Oh, let 'em stay," said Mrs. Jones heartily; "a little beer ain't goin' to hurt 'em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain't none the worse fu' it." "They 'll git out o' that, all right, if they live in N' Yawk," said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. "You neither?" "Oh, I drink it," said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother. "Joe,"<\|quote\|>she cried to him,</\|quote\|>"you must ricollect you ain't at home. What 'ud yo' pa think?" Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment. "Yes, that 's it, Miss Kitty, sing us something," said the irrepressible Thomas, "an' after while we 'll have that fellah down that plays 'Rag-time.' He 's out o' sight, I tell you." With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas. "I say, that 's singin' now, I tell you," he cried. "You ought to have some o' the new songs. D' jever hear 'Baby, you got to leave'? I tell you, that 's a hot one. I 'll bring you some of 'em. Why, you could git a job on the stage easy with that voice o' yourn. I got a frien' in one o' the comp'nies an' I 'll speak to him about you." "You ought to git Mr. Thomas to take you to the th'atre some night. He goes lots." "Why, yes, what 's the matter with to-morrer night? There 's a good coon show in town. Out o' sight. Let 's all go." "I ain't nevah been to nothin' lak dat, an' I don't know," said Mrs. Hamilton. "Aw, come, I 'll git the tickets an' we 'll all go. Great singin', you know. What d' you say?" The mother hesitated, and Joe filled the breach. "We 'd all like to go," he said. "Ma, we' ll go if you ain't too tired." "Tired? Pshaw, you 'll furgit all about your tiredness when Smithkins gits on the stage. Y' ought to hear him sing," 'I bin huntin' fu' wo'k'! "You 'd die laughing." Mrs. Hamilton made no further demur, and the matter was closed. Awhile later the "Rag-time" man came down and gave them a sample of what they were to hear the next night. Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Jones two-stepped, and they sent a boy after some more beer. Joe found it a very jolly evening, but Kit's and the mother's hearts were heavy as they went up to bed. "Say," said Mr. Thomas when they had gone, "that little girl 's a peach, you bet; a little green, I guess, but she 'll ripen in the sun." VIII AN EVENING OUT Fannie Hamilton, tired as she was, sat long into the night with her little family discussing New York,--its advantages and disadvantages, its beauty and its ugliness, its morality and immorality. She had somewhat receded from her first position, that it was better being here in the great strange city than being at home where the very streets shamed them. She had not liked the way that their fellow lodger looked at Kitty. It was bold, to say the least. She was not pleased, either, with their new acquaintance's familiarity. And yet, he had said no more than some stranger, if there could be such a stranger, would have said down home. There was a difference, however, which she recognised. Thomas was not the provincial who puts every one on a par with himself, nor was he the metropolitan who complacently patronises the whole world. He was trained out of the one and not up to the other. The intermediate only succeeded in being offensive. Mrs. Jones' assurance as to her guest's fine qualities did not do all that might have been expected to reassure Mrs. Hamilton in the face of the difficulties of the gentleman's manner. She could	The Sport Of The Gods
"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."	Lucy	said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They	go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They	parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would	interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees	the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun. "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver." Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible	and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying: "I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets." "Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun. "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver." Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say: "I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won't you be better on your feet?" "Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan. "Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!" But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the street frequented by tourists. "She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watched her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven." Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the suggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; she wanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her on the wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not attempt. It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte had once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were	Lucy in a hasty whisper: "Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--and he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; it was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioning S., and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades of thought. She thought they were commercial travellers--" 'drummers' "was the word she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she did so:" 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,' "and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.' "It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:" 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:" 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' "Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers." "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:" 'I shall go alone.' "She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying: "I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets." "Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun. "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver." Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say: "I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won't you be better on your feet?" "Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan. "Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!" But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the street frequented by tourists. "She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watched her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven." Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the suggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; she wanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her on the wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not attempt. It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte had once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were inferior to men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to inspire others to achievement rather than to achieve themselves. Indirectly, by means of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much. But if she rushed into the fray herself she would be first censured, then despised, and finally ignored. Poems had been written to illustrate this point. There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons have gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much early Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of business, sweet to pay her honour when she has cooked our dinner well. But alas! the creature grows degenerate. In her heart also there are springing up strange desires. She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vast panoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She has marked the kingdom of this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war--a radiant crust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the receding heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully over the surface, having the most delightful meetings with other men, happy, not because they are masculine, but because they are alive. Before the show breaks up she would like to drop the august title of the Eternal Woman, and go there as her transitory self. Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal to which she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor has she any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed her particularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that she had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop. There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of	poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.<\|quote\|>"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."</\|quote\|>"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun. "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver." Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say: "I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won't you be better on your feet?" "Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan. "Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!" But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the street frequented by tourists. "She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watched her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven." Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the suggestive twitterings	A Room With A View
"Cheer up,"	Milly	into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a	arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you	all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes	reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would	and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do,	them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell," said Baby. "You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us	colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself," said James, who was new to this kind of work. "How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell," said Baby. "You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it." Presently Tony realized that it was not etiquette in Milly's world to express interest in women, other than the one you were with. They drank champagne. So also, noticed Tony with displeasure, did the two detectives. He would have something to say about that when their bill for expenses came in. It was not as though they had been accommodating in the matter of Winnie. All the time, at the back of his mind, he was worrying with the problem of what they could possibly do after dinner, but it was solved for him, just as he was lighting his cigar, by the appearance of Dan from the other side of the dining-room. "Look here," he said, "if you two aren't doing anything special, why don't you join up with us and come to the party at my friend's place. You'll like it. He always gives one the best of everything." "Oh, do let's," said Milly. Dan's evening clothes were made of blue cloth that was supposed to appear black in artificial light; for some reason, however, they remained very blue. So Milly and Tony went to Dan's friend's place and had the best of everything. There was a party of twenty or thirty people, all more or less like Dan. Dan's friend was most hospitable. When he was not fiddling with the wireless, which gave trouble off and on throughout the evening, he was sauntering among his guests refilling their glasses. "This stuff's all right," he said, showing the label, "it won't hurt you. It's the right stuff." They had a lot of the right stuff. Quite often Dan's friend noticed that Tony seemed to be out of the party. Then he would come across and put his hand on Tony's shoulder. "I'm so glad Dan brought you," he would say. "Hope you're getting all you want. Delighted to see	bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below.<\|quote\|>"Cheer up,"</\|quote\|>said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell," said Baby. "You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend	A Handful Of Dust
she answered herself.	No speaker	_that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons	learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly	least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a	fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting	magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in	see what this bottle does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!" It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself "That's quite enough--I hope I shan't grow any more--As it is, I can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so much!" Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself "Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What _will_ become of me?" Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" "Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!" and at last she spread out her hand again,	to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door, had vanished completely. Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone, "Why, Mary Ann, what _are_ you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!" And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it had made. "He took me for his housemaid," she said to herself as she ran. "How surprised he'll be when he finds out who I am! But I'd better take him his fan and gloves--that is, if I can find them." As she said this, she came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass plate with the name "W. RABBIT," engraved upon it. She went in without knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the fan and gloves. "How queer it seems," Alice said to herself, "to be going messages for a rabbit! I suppose Dinah'll be sending me on messages next!" And she began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: "'Miss Alice! Come here directly, and get ready for your walk!' 'Coming in a minute, nurse! But I've got to see that the mouse doesn't get out.' Only I don't think," Alice went on, "that they'd let Dinah stop in the house if it began ordering people about like that!" By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three pairs of tiny white kid gloves: she took up the fan and a pair of the gloves, and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a little bottle that stood near the looking-glass. There was no label this time with the words "DRINK ME," but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it to her lips. "I know _something_ interesting is sure to happen," she said to herself, "whenever I eat or drink anything; so I'll just see what this bottle does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!" It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself "That's quite enough--I hope I shan't grow any more--As it is, I can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so much!" Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself "Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What _will_ become of me?" Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" "Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!" and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. "What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: "Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!" (a loud crash)--"Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, _I_ shan't! _You_ do it!--_That_ I won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to go down the chimney!" "Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?" said Alice to herself. "Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but I _think_ I can kick a little!" She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till she heard a little animal (she couldn't guess of what sort it was) scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then, saying to herself "This is Bill," she gave one sharp kick, and waited to see what would happen next. The first thing she heard was a general chorus of "There goes Bill!" then the Rabbit's voice along--" "Catch him, you by the hedge!" then silence, and then another confusion of voices--"Hold up his head--Brandy now--Don't choke him--How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell us all about it!" Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, (" "That's Bill," thought Alice,) "Well, I hardly know--No more, thank ye; I'm better now--but I'm a deal too flustered to tell you--all I know is, something comes at me like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!" "So you did, old fellow!" said the others. "We	does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!" It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself "That's quite enough--I hope I shan't grow any more--As it is, I can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so much!" Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself "Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What _will_ become of me?" Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!"<\|quote\|>she answered herself.</\|quote\|>"How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" "Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
she replied, very feelingly;	No speaker	am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go.	my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I	she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten	abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within Isabella s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have not!" cried Catherine. "I	would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing." "Catherine, you must go," said James. "But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say either of them would like to go." "Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you." "That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within Isabella s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have not!" cried Catherine. "I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine hey?" Isabella s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again. "A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over;	everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse." This was the first time of her brother s openly siding against her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied. But "No, no, no!" was the immediate answer; "that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing." "Catherine, you must go," said James. "But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say either of them would like to go." "Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you." "That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within Isabella s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have not!" cried Catherine. "I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine hey?" Isabella s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again. "A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party." "This will not do," said Catherine; "I cannot submit to this. I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right." Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection. "I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me." Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time. "Then I will go	upon any account, retract. But that she _must_ and _should_ retract, was instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton tomorrow, they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal. Catherine was distressed, but not subdued. "Do not urge me, Isabella. I am engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go." This availed nothing. The same arguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would not hear of a refusal. "It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you had just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put off the walk till Tuesday." "No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior engagement." But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling on her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most endearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so dearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained by such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to influence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her with having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so little a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. "I cannot help being jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who love you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are stronger than anybody s; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace; and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut me to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else." Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others? Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse." This was the first time of her brother s openly siding against her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied. But "No, no, no!" was the immediate answer; "that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing." "Catherine, you must go," said James. "But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say either of them would like to go." "Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you." "That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within Isabella s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have not!" cried Catherine. "I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine hey?" Isabella s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again. "A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party." "This will not do," said Catherine; "I cannot submit to this. I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right." Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection. "I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me." Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time. "Then I will go after them," said Catherine; "wherever they are I will go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it." And with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have darted after her, but Morland withheld him. "Let her go, let her go, if she will go." "She is as obstinate as" Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper one. Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother; but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before, and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted merely her own gratification; _that_ might have been ensured in some degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had attended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their opinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent, she almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the Tilneys advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into their lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still remaining at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying that she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which happened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the drawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her explanation, defective only in being from her irritation of nerves and shortness of breath no explanation at all, was instantly given. "I am come in a great hurry It was	selfish, regardless of everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight, could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend I shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse." This was the first time of her brother s openly siding against her, and anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and everybody might then be satisfied. But "No, no, no!" was the immediate answer; "that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of the party. If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing." "Catherine, you must go," said James. "But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say either of them would like to go." "Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d me if I do. I only go for the sake of driving you." "That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away. The three others still continued together, walking in a most uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and her arm was still linked within Isabella s, though their hearts were at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always distressed, but always steady. "I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James; "you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest, best-tempered of my sisters." "I hope I am not less so now,"<\|quote\|>she replied, very feelingly;</\|quote\|>"but indeed I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right." "I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great struggle." Catherine s heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses." "You have not!" cried Catherine. "I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine hey?" Isabella s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again. "A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party." "This will not do," said Catherine; "I cannot submit to this. I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right." Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection. "I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me." Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time. "Then I will go after them," said Catherine; "wherever they are I will go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it." And with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have darted after her, but Morland withheld him. "Let her go, let her go, if she will go." "She is as obstinate as" Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper one. Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother; but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before, and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not	Northanger Abbey
Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.	No speaker	such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the	rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes	on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!”	an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll	meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under	Mr. Bender’s bound, as he’d say,” Lady Sand-gate interposed-- “‘bound’ to make you swallow the enormous luscious plum that your appetite so morbidly rejects!” “My appetite, as morbid as you like” --her old friend had shrewdly turned on her-- “is my own affair, and if the fellow must deal in enormities I warn him to carry them elsewhere!” Lord John, plainly, by this time, was quite exasperated at the absurdity of him. “But how can’t you see that it’s only a plum, as she says, for a plum and an eye for an eye--since the picture itself, with this huge ventilation, is now quite a different affair?” “How the deuce a different affair when just what the man himself confesses is that, in spite of all the chatter of the prigs and pedants, there’s no really established ground for treating it as anything but the same?” On which, as having so unanswerably spoken, Lord Theign shook himself free again, in his high petulance, and moved restlessly to where the passage to the other room appeared to offer his nerves an issue; all moreover to the effect of suggesting to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the	on the housetops that’s a Mantovano of the Mantovanos, and others shrieking back at them that they’re donkeys if not criminals.” “He may take it for whatever he likes,” said Lord Theign, heedless of these contributions, “he may father it on Michael Angelo himself if he’ll but clear out with it and let me alone!” “What he’d _like_ to take it for,” Lord John at this point saw his way to remark, “is something in the nature of a Hundred Thousand.” “A Hundred Thousand?” cried his astonished friend. “Quite, I dare say, a Hundred Thousand” --the young man enjoyed clearly handling even by the lips so round a sum. Lady Sandgate disclaimed however with agility any appearance of having gaped. “Why, haven’t you yet realised, Theign, that those are the American figures?” His lordship looked at her fixedly and then did the same by Lord John, after which he waited a little. “I’ve nothing to do with the American figures--which seem to me, if you press me, you know, quite intolerably vulgar.” “Well, I’d be as vulgar as anybody for a Hundred Thousand!” Lady Sandgate hastened to proclaim. “Didn’t he let us know at Dedborough,” Lord John asked of the master of that seat, “that he had no use, as he said, for lower values?” “I’ve heard him remark myself,” said their companion, rising to the monstrous memory, “that he wouldn’t take a cheap picture--even though a ‘handsome’ one--as a present.” “And does he call the thing round the corner a cheap picture?” the proprietor of the work demanded. Lord John threw up his arms with a grin of impatience. “All he wants to do, don’t you see? is to prevent your _making_ it one!” Lord Theign glared at this imputation to him of a low ductility. “I offered the thing, as it was, at an estimate worthy of it--and of _me_.” “My dear reckless friend,” his young adviser protested, “you named no figure _at all_ when it came to the point----!” “It _didn’t_ come to the point! Nothing came to the point but that I put a Moretto on view; as a thing, yes, perfectly” --Lord Theign accepted the reminding gesture-- “on which a rich American had an eye and in which he had, so to speak, an interest. That was what I wanted, and so we left it--parting each of us ready but neither of us bound.” “Ah, Mr. Bender’s bound, as he’d say,” Lady Sand-gate interposed-- “‘bound’ to make you swallow the enormous luscious plum that your appetite so morbidly rejects!” “My appetite, as morbid as you like” --her old friend had shrewdly turned on her-- “is my own affair, and if the fellow must deal in enormities I warn him to carry them elsewhere!” Lord John, plainly, by this time, was quite exasperated at the absurdity of him. “But how can’t you see that it’s only a plum, as she says, for a plum and an eye for an eye--since the picture itself, with this huge ventilation, is now quite a different affair?” “How the deuce a different affair when just what the man himself confesses is that, in spite of all the chatter of the prigs and pedants, there’s no really established ground for treating it as anything but the same?” On which, as having so unanswerably spoken, Lord Theign shook himself free again, in his high petulance, and moved restlessly to where the passage to the other room appeared to offer his nerves an issue; all moreover to the effect of suggesting to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t help its doing what it can and what it will for him anywhere!” “Then it isn’t his yet,” the elder man retorted-- “and I promise you never will be if he has _sent_ you to me with his big drum!” Lady Sandgate turned sadly on this to her associate in patience, as if the case were now really beyond them. “Yes, how indeed can it ever _become_ his if Theign simply won’t let him pay for it?” Her question was unanswerable. “It’s the first time in all my life I’ve known a man feel insulted, in such a piece of business, by happening _not_ to be, in the usual way, more or less swindled!” “Theign is unable to take it in,” her ladyship explained, “that--as I’ve heard it said of all these money-monsters of the new type--Bender simply can’t _afford_ not to be cited and celebrated as the biggest buyer who ever lived.” “Ah, cited and celebrated at my _expense_--say it at once and have it over, that I may enjoy what you all want to do to me!” “The dear man’s inimitable--at his ‘expense’!” It was more than Lord John could bear as he fairly flung himself off in his derisive impotence and addressed his wail to Lady Sandgate. “Yes, at my expense is exactly what I mean,” Lord Theign asseverated-- “at the expense of my modest claim to regulate my behaviour by my own standards. There you perfectly _are_ about the man, and it’s precisely what I say--that he’s to hustle and harry me _because_ he’s a money-monster: which I never for a moment dreamed of, please understand, when I let you, John, thrust him at me as a pecuniary resource at Dedborough. I didn’t put my property on view that _he_ might blow about it------!” “No, if you like it,” Lady Sandgate returned; “but you certainly didn’t so arrange” --she seemed to think her point somehow would help-- “that you might blow about it yourself!” “Nobody wants to ‘blow,’” Lord John more stoutly interposed, “either hot or cold, I take it; but I really don’t see the harm of Bender’s liking to be known for the scale of his transactions--actual or merely imputed even, if you will; since that scale is really so magnificent.” Lady Sandgate half accepted, half qualified this plea. “The only question perhaps is why he doesn’t try for some precious work that somebody--less delicious than dear Theign--_can_ be persuaded on bended knees to accept a hundred thousand for.” “‘Try’ for one?” --her	to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!”<\|quote\|>Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea.</\|quote\|>“Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. “No kind of a furious flaunting one, under _my_ patronage, that I can prevent, my boy! The Dedborough picture in the market--owing to horrid little circumstances that regard myself alone--is the Dedborough picture at a decent, sufficient, civilised Dedborough price, and nothing else whatever; which I beg you will take as my last word on the subject.” Lord John, trying whether he _could_ take it, momentarily mingled his hushed state with that of their hostess, to whom he addressed a helpless look; after which, however, he appeared to find that he could only reassert himself. “May I nevertheless reply that I think you’ll not be able to prevent _anything?_--since the discussed object will completely escape your control in New York!” “And almost any discussed object” --Lady Sand-gate rose to the occasion also-- “is in New York, by what one hears, easily _worth_ a Hundred Thousand!” Lord Theign looked from one of them to the other. “I sell the man a Hundred Thousand worth of swagger and advertisement; and of fraudulent swagger and objectionable advertisement at that?” “Well” --Lord John was but briefly baffled-- “when the picture’s his you can’t	The Outcry
"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"	Hercule Poirot	expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have	would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give	my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a	had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity. Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: "I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint." "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost	was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash. "_Messieurs, mesdames_," said Poirot, with a flourish, "let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!" CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS "Poirot, you old villain," I said, "I've half a mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?" We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity. Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: "I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint." "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?" "Yes, but" "And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely different persons?" "No," I said, "it was not plain to me!" "Then again," continued Poirot, "at the beginning, did I not repeat to you several times that I didn't want Mr. Inglethorp arrested _now_? That should have conveyed something to you." "Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?" "Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp's death,	the last link of the chain is now in my hands." Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper. "A letter in the murderer's own hand-writing, _mes amis!_ Had it been a little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp, warned in time, would have escaped. As it was, she realized her danger, but not the manner of it." In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and, clearing his throat, read: Dearest Evelyn: You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right only it will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There's a good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea of yours about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must be very circumspect. A false step ' "Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this hand-writing and" A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence. "You devil! How did you get it?" A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash. "_Messieurs, mesdames_," said Poirot, with a flourish, "let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!" CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS "Poirot, you old villain," I said, "I've half a mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?" We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity. Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: "I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint." "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?" "Yes, but" "And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely different persons?" "No," I said, "it was not plain to me!" "Then again," continued Poirot, "at the beginning, did I not repeat to you several times that I didn't want Mr. Inglethorp arrested _now_? That should have conveyed something to you." "Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?" "Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp's death, her husband would benefit the most. There was no getting away from that. When I went up to Styles with you that first day, I had no idea as to how the crime had been committed, but from what I knew of Mr. Inglethorp I fancied that it would be very hard to find anything to connect him with it. When I arrived at the ch teau, I realized at once that it was Mrs. Inglethorp who had burnt the will; and there, by the way, you cannot complain, my friend, for I tried my best to force on you the significance of that bedroom fire in midsummer." "Yes, yes," I said impatiently. "Go on." "Well, my friend, as I say, my views as to Mr. Inglethorp's guilt were very much shaken. There was, in fact, so much evidence against him that I was inclined to believe that he had not done it." "When did you change your mind?" "When I found that the more efforts I made to clear him, the more efforts he made to get himself arrested. Then, when I discovered that Inglethorp had nothing to do with Mrs. Raikes and that in fact it was John	and then answered himself impressively. "Her medicine!" "Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her tonic?" I cried. "There was no need to introduce it. It was already there in the mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to you, I will read you an extract from a book on dispensing which I found in the Dispensary of the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:" "The following prescription has become famous in text books:" Strychninae Sulph. . . . . . 1 gr. Potass Bromide . . . . . . . 3vi Aqua ad. . . . . . . . . . . . . 3viii Fiat Mistura _This solution deposits in a few hours the greater part of the strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide in transparent crystals. A lady in England lost her life by taking a similar mixture: the precipitated strychnine collected at the bottom, and in taking the last dose she swallowed nearly all of it!_ "Now there was, of course, no bromide in Dr. Wilkins' prescription, but you will remember that I mentioned an empty box of bromide powders. One or two of those powders introduced into the full bottle of medicine would effectually precipitate the strychnine, as the book describes, and cause it to be taken in the last dose. You will learn later that the person who usually poured out Mrs. Inglethorp's medicine was always extremely careful not to shake the bottle, but to leave the sediment at the bottom of it undisturbed." "Throughout the case, there have been evidences that the tragedy was intended to take place on Monday evening. On that day, Mrs. Inglethorp's bell wire was neatly cut, and on Monday evening Mademoiselle Cynthia was spending the night with friends, so that Mrs. Inglethorp would have been quite alone in the right wing, completely shut off from help of any kind, and would have died, in all probability, before medical aid could have been summoned. But in her hurry to be in time for the village entertainment Mrs. Inglethorp forgot to take her medicine, and the next day she lunched away from home, so that the last and fatal dose was actually taken twenty-four hours later than had been anticipated by the murderer; and it is owing to that delay that the final proof the last link of the chain is now in my hands." Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper. "A letter in the murderer's own hand-writing, _mes amis!_ Had it been a little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp, warned in time, would have escaped. As it was, she realized her danger, but not the manner of it." In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and, clearing his throat, read: Dearest Evelyn: You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right only it will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There's a good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea of yours about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must be very circumspect. A false step ' "Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this hand-writing and" A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence. "You devil! How did you get it?" A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash. "_Messieurs, mesdames_," said Poirot, with a flourish, "let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!" CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS "Poirot, you old villain," I said, "I've half a mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?" We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity. Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: "I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint." "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?" "Yes, but" "And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely different persons?" "No," I said, "it was not plain to me!" "Then again," continued Poirot, "at the beginning, did I not repeat to you several times that I didn't want Mr. Inglethorp arrested _now_? That should have conveyed something to you." "Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?" "Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp's death, her husband would benefit the most. There was no getting away from that. When I went up to Styles with you that first day, I had no idea as to how the crime had been committed, but from what I knew of Mr. Inglethorp I fancied that it would be very hard to find anything to connect him with it. When I arrived at the ch teau, I realized at once that it was Mrs. Inglethorp who had burnt the will; and there, by the way, you cannot complain, my friend, for I tried my best to force on you the significance of that bedroom fire in midsummer." "Yes, yes," I said impatiently. "Go on." "Well, my friend, as I say, my views as to Mr. Inglethorp's guilt were very much shaken. There was, in fact, so much evidence against him that I was inclined to believe that he had not done it." "When did you change your mind?" "When I found that the more efforts I made to clear him, the more efforts he made to get himself arrested. Then, when I discovered that Inglethorp had nothing to do with Mrs. Raikes and that in fact it was John Cavendish who was interested in that quarter, I was quite sure." "But why?" "Simply this. If it had been Inglethorp who was carrying on an intrigue with Mrs. Raikes, his silence was perfectly comprehensible. But, when I discovered that it was known all over the village that it was John who was attracted by the farmer's pretty wife, his silence bore quite a different interpretation. It was nonsense to pretend that he was afraid of the scandal, as no possible scandal could attach to him. This attitude of his gave me furiously to think, and I was slowly forced to the conclusion that Alfred Inglethorp wanted to be arrested. _Eh bien!_ from that moment, I was equally determined that he should not be arrested." "Wait a minute. I don't see why he wished to be arrested?" "Because, _mon ami_, it is the law of your country that a man once acquitted can never be tried again for the same offence. Aha! but it was clever his idea! Assuredly, he is a man of method. See here, he knew that in his position he was bound to be suspected, so he conceived the exceedingly clever idea of preparing a lot of manufactured evidence against himself. He wished to be arrested. He would then produce his irreproachable alibi and, hey presto, he was safe for life!" "But I still don't see how he managed to prove his alibi, and yet go to the chemist's shop?" Poirot stared at me in surprise. "Is it possible? My poor friend! You have not yet realized that it was Miss Howard who went to the chemist's shop?" "Miss Howard?" "But, certainly. Who else? It was most easy for her. She is of a good height, her voice is deep and manly; moreover, remember, she and Inglethorp are cousins, and there is a distinct resemblance between them, especially in their gait and bearing. It was simplicity itself. They are a clever pair!" "I am still a little fogged as to how exactly the bromide business was done," I remarked. "_Bon!_ I will reconstruct for you as far as possible. I am inclined to think that Miss Howard was the master mind in that affair. You remember her once mentioning that her father was a doctor? Possibly she dispensed his medicines for him, or she may have taken the idea from one of the many books lying about	"Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this hand-writing and" A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence. "You devil! How did you get it?" A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash. "_Messieurs, mesdames_," said Poirot, with a flourish, "let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!" CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS "Poirot, you old villain," I said, "I've half a mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?" We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity. Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said: "I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that _enfin_, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have in your so expressive idiom" smelt a rat'!<\|quote\|>"And then, _bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!"</\|quote\|>"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for." "My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause." "Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still think you might have given me a hint." "But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?" "Yes, but" "And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely different persons?" "No," I said, "it was not plain to me!" "Then again," continued Poirot, "at the beginning, did I not repeat to you several times that I didn't want Mr. Inglethorp arrested _now_? That should have conveyed something to you." "Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?" "Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp's death, her husband would benefit the most. There was no getting away from that. When I	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"	Henry Tilney	young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am	But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do	her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you	in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word nicest, as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can,	I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word nicest, as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement people were nice in their dress,	of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath. "I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France." "You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised. "Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you gentlemen read better books." "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe s works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word nicest, as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word." "While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?" "To say the truth, I do not much like any other." "Indeed!" "That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?" "Yes, I am fond of history." "I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should	must not be over particular. Young people _will_ be young people, as your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do not like to be always thwarted." "But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you would have found me hard to persuade." "As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done," said Mr. Allen; "and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any more." "That is just what I was going to say," added his wife. Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a moment s thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper and kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of which she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing any such thing. "You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is old enough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to advise her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however, you had better not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and you will be only getting ill will." Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen s approbation of her own conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the danger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another? CHAPTER 14 The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath. "I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France." "You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised. "Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you gentlemen read better books." "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe s works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word nicest, as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word." "While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?" "To say the truth, I do not much like any other." "Indeed!" "That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?" "Yes, I am fond of history." "I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes mouths, their thoughts and designs the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books." "Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, "are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of history and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one s own observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made and probably with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great." "You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person s courage that could sit down on purpose to do it." "That little boys and girls should be tormented," said Henry, "is what no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the verb to torment, as I observed to be your own method, instead of to instruct,	escape indeed; for what would the Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another? CHAPTER 14 The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath. "I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France." "You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised. "Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you gentlemen read better books." "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe s works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly."<\|quote\|>"It is _amazingly;_ it may well suggest _amazement_ if they do for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of Have you read this? and Have you read that? I shall soon leave you as far behind me as what shall I say? I want an appropriate simile. as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!"</\|quote\|>"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word nicest, as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it _is_ a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word." "While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?" "To say the truth, I do not much like any other." "Indeed!" "That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?" "Yes, I am fond of history." "I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes mouths, their thoughts and designs the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books." "Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, "are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of history and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the	Northanger Abbey
"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."	Anne Steele	so unfairly by your sister?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>Elinor tried to talk of	yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele	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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that." (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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." (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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." (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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." (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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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 continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following natural remark. "Wait for his having a living! ay, we all know how _that_ will end: they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can give her. Then they will have a child every year! and Lord help em! how poor they will be! I must see what I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed! as I talked of t other day. No, no, they must get a stout girl of all works. Betty s sister would never do for them _now_." The next	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?" "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." (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?"<\|quote\|>"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."</\|quote\|>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.	Sense And Sensibility
"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."	Signor Carella	out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak.	from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her.	upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes	I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number." Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. Thank you, Gino--" The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed. There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had	is Perfetta?" His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speaking to Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of the landing and the two open doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time. She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet. "You know!" he continued, "but you will not tell me. Exactly like you." He reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. "And why won t you tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number." Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. Thank you, Gino--" The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed. There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, which she refused. She had not one word to say to him. "What is it?" he repeated. "What has frightened you?" He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan. For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone. "Business--" she said at last. "Business with me?" "Most important business." She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair. "Before business you must get well; this is the best wine." She refused	before them a long and profitable friendship. But she must succeed. No one would forgive her if she did not succeed. She prepared to do battle with the powers of evil. The voice of her adversary was heard at last, singing fearlessly from his expanded lungs, like a professional. Herein he differed from Englishmen, who always have a little feeling against music, and sing only from the throat, apologetically. He padded upstairs, and looked in at the open door of the reception-room without seeing her. Her heart leapt and her throat was dry when he turned away and passed, still singing, into the room opposite. It is alarming not to be seen. He had left the door of this room open, and she could see into it, right across the landing. It was in a shocking mess. Food, bedclothes, patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives lay strewn over a large table and on the floor. But it was the mess that comes of life, not of desolation. It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she was standing now, and the light in it was soft and large, as from some gracious, noble opening. He stopped singing, and cried "Where is Perfetta?" His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speaking to Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of the landing and the two open doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time. She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet. "You know!" he continued, "but you will not tell me. Exactly like you." He reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. "And why won t you tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number." Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. Thank you, Gino--" The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed. There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, which she refused. She had not one word to say to him. "What is it?" he repeated. "What has frightened you?" He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan. For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone. "Business--" she said at last. "Business with me?" "Most important business." She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair. "Before business you must get well; this is the best wine." She refused it feebly. He poured out a glass. She drank it. As she did so she became self-conscious. However important the business, it was not proper of her to have called on him, or to accept his hospitality. "Perhaps you are engaged," she said. "And as I am not very well--" "You are not well enough to go back. And I am not engaged." She looked nervously at the other room. "Ah, now I understand," he exclaimed. "Now I see what frightened you. But why did you never speak?" And taking her into the room where he lived, he pointed to--the baby. She had thought so much about this baby, of its welfare, its soul, its morals, its probable defects. But, like most unmarried people, she had only thought of it as a word--just as the healthy man only thinks of the word death, not of death itself. The real thing, lying asleep on a dirty rug, disconcerted her. It did not stand for a principle any longer. It was so much flesh and blood, so many inches and ounces of life--a glorious, unquestionable fact, which a man and another woman had given to the world. You could talk to it;	everything there lay a deposit of heavy white dust, which was only blown off one moment to thicken on another. It is well to be remembered with love. It is not so very dreadful to be forgotten entirely. But if we shall resent anything on earth at all, we shall resent the consecration of a deserted room. Miss Abbott did not sit down, partly because the antimacassars might harbour fleas, partly because she had suddenly felt faint, and was glad to cling on to the funnel of the stove. She struggled with herself, for she had need to be very calm; only if she was very calm might her behaviour be justified. She had broken faith with Philip and Harriet: she was going to try for the baby before they did. If she failed she could scarcely look them in the face again. "Harriet and her brother," she reasoned, "don t realize what is before them. She would bluster and be rude; he would be pleasant and take it as a joke. Both of them--even if they offered money--would fail. But I begin to understand the man s nature; he does not love the child, but he will be touchy about it--and that is quite as bad for us. He s charming, but he s no fool; he conquered me last year; he conquered Mr. Herriton yesterday, and if I am not careful he will conquer us all today, and the baby will grow up in Monteriano. He is terribly strong; Lilia found that out, but only I remember it now." This attempt, and this justification of it, were the results of the long and restless night. Miss Abbott had come to believe that she alone could do battle with Gino, because she alone understood him; and she had put this, as nicely as she could, in a note which she had left for Philip. It distressed her to write such a note, partly because her education inclined her to reverence the male, partly because she had got to like Philip a good deal after their last strange interview. His pettiness would be dispersed, and as for his "unconventionality," which was so much gossiped about at Sawston, she began to see that it did not differ greatly from certain familiar notions of her own. If only he would forgive her for what she was doing now, there might perhaps be before them a long and profitable friendship. But she must succeed. No one would forgive her if she did not succeed. She prepared to do battle with the powers of evil. The voice of her adversary was heard at last, singing fearlessly from his expanded lungs, like a professional. Herein he differed from Englishmen, who always have a little feeling against music, and sing only from the throat, apologetically. He padded upstairs, and looked in at the open door of the reception-room without seeing her. Her heart leapt and her throat was dry when he turned away and passed, still singing, into the room opposite. It is alarming not to be seen. He had left the door of this room open, and she could see into it, right across the landing. It was in a shocking mess. Food, bedclothes, patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives lay strewn over a large table and on the floor. But it was the mess that comes of life, not of desolation. It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she was standing now, and the light in it was soft and large, as from some gracious, noble opening. He stopped singing, and cried "Where is Perfetta?" His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speaking to Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of the landing and the two open doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time. She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet. "You know!" he continued, "but you will not tell me. Exactly like you." He reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. "And why won t you tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number." Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. Thank you, Gino--" The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed. There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, which she refused. She had not one word to say to him. "What is it?" he repeated. "What has frightened you?" He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan. For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone. "Business--" she said at last. "Business with me?" "Most important business." She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair. "Before business you must get well; this is the best wine." She refused it feebly. He poured out a glass. She drank it. As she did so she became self-conscious. However important the business, it was not proper of her to have called on him, or to accept his hospitality. "Perhaps you are engaged," she said. "And as I am not very well--" "You are not well enough to go back. And I am not engaged." She looked nervously at the other room. "Ah, now I understand," he exclaimed. "Now I see what frightened you. But why did you never speak?" And taking her into the room where he lived, he pointed to--the baby. She had thought so much about this baby, of its welfare, its soul, its morals, its probable defects. But, like most unmarried people, she had only thought of it as a word--just as the healthy man only thinks of the word death, not of death itself. The real thing, lying asleep on a dirty rug, disconcerted her. It did not stand for a principle any longer. It was so much flesh and blood, so many inches and ounces of life--a glorious, unquestionable fact, which a man and another woman had given to the world. You could talk to it; in time it would answer you; in time it would not answer you unless it chose, but would secrete, within the compass of its body, thoughts and wonderful passions of its own. And this was the machine on which she and Mrs. Herriton and Philip and Harriet had for the last month been exercising their various ideals--had determined that in time it should move this way or that way, should accomplish this and not that. It was to be Low Church, it was to be high-principled, it was to be tactful, gentlemanly, artistic--excellent things all. Yet now that she saw this baby, lying asleep on a dirty rug, she had a great disposition not to dictate one of them, and to exert no more influence than there may be in a kiss or in the vaguest of the heartfelt prayers. But she had practised self-discipline, and her thoughts and actions were not yet to correspond. To recover her self-esteem she tried to imagine that she was in her district, and to behave accordingly. "What a fine child, Signor Carella. And how nice of you to talk to it. Though I see that the ungrateful little fellow is asleep! Seven months? No, eight; of course eight. Still, he is a remarkably fine child for his age." Italian is a bad medium for condescension. The patronizing words came out gracious and sincere, and he smiled with pleasure. "You must not stand. Let us sit on the loggia, where it is cool. I am afraid the room is very untidy," he added, with the air of a hostess who apologizes for a stray thread on the drawing-room carpet. Miss Abbott picked her way to the chair. He sat near her, astride the parapet, with one foot in the loggia and the other dangling into the view. His face was in profile, and its beautiful contours drove artfully against the misty green of the opposing hills. "Posing!" said Miss Abbott to herself. "A born artist s model." "Mr. Herriton called yesterday," she began, "but you were out." He started an elaborate and graceful explanation. He had gone for the day to Poggibonsi. Why had the Herritons not written to him, so that he could have received them properly? Poggibonsi would have done any day; not but what his business there was fairly important. What did she suppose that it was? Naturally she was not	notions of her own. If only he would forgive her for what she was doing now, there might perhaps be before them a long and profitable friendship. But she must succeed. No one would forgive her if she did not succeed. She prepared to do battle with the powers of evil. The voice of her adversary was heard at last, singing fearlessly from his expanded lungs, like a professional. Herein he differed from Englishmen, who always have a little feeling against music, and sing only from the throat, apologetically. He padded upstairs, and looked in at the open door of the reception-room without seeing her. Her heart leapt and her throat was dry when he turned away and passed, still singing, into the room opposite. It is alarming not to be seen. He had left the door of this room open, and she could see into it, right across the landing. It was in a shocking mess. Food, bedclothes, patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives lay strewn over a large table and on the floor. But it was the mess that comes of life, not of desolation. It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she was standing now, and the light in it was soft and large, as from some gracious, noble opening. He stopped singing, and cried "Where is Perfetta?" His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speaking to Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of the landing and the two open doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time. She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet. "You know!" he continued, "but you will not tell me. Exactly like you." He reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. "And why won t you tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number." Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world. She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.<\|quote\|>"Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari."</\|quote\|>Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. "Ah! you don t care if you get the profits. You won t even say Thank you, Gino. Say it, or I ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. Thank you, Gino--" The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed. There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, which she refused. She had not one word to say to him. "What is it?" he repeated. "What has frightened you?" He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan. For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone. "Business--" she said at last. "Business with me?" "Most important business." She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair. "Before business you must get well; this is the best wine." She refused it feebly. He poured out a glass. She drank it. As she did so she became self-conscious. However important the business, it was not proper of her to have called on him, or to accept his hospitality. "Perhaps you are engaged," she said. "And as I am not very well--" "You are not well enough to go back. And I am not engaged." She looked nervously at the other room. "Ah, now I understand," he exclaimed. "Now I see what frightened you. But why did you never speak?" And taking her into the room where he lived, he pointed to--the baby. She had thought so much about this baby, of its welfare, its soul, its morals, its probable defects. But, like most unmarried people, she had only thought of it as a word--just as the healthy man only thinks of the word death, not of death itself. The real thing, lying asleep on a dirty rug, disconcerted her.	Where Angels Fear To Tread
"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"	Jem Wimble	for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he	below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget	no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think	allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly,	him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been	not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not allowed to ask questions as to what's right or wrong." "But I was treated like a criminal," said Don. "You were treated far better than pressed men are as a rule especially those who try to break away. But I can't argue that with you. You and your companion are king's men now, or king's boys, and have to do your duty. Let's come back to to-day's work. The captain's offended, and I want to save you from trouble if I can." "It's very kind of you, sir," said Don. "Now tell me this. Do you know what you were going to do when the captain knocked you backwards?" Don was silent. "Well, I'll tell you," said the boatswain. "You were going to strike him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough,	in his hot rage everything about their relative positions and the difference in age, the boy made for the tall, frowning officer before him, and would have struck him in his blind wrath but for Bosun Jones, who had seen everything, and now hastily interposed. "No, no, my boy," he said. "Keep back, you are too wet to do any good. Allow me, sir." Don shrank back, realising the heinousness of the social sin he was about to commit, and a dead silence fell on the group, the men staring wonderingly as the captain accepted Bosun Jones' help, stepped into the boat, and stood wringing himself. "Why, the young dog was going to strike me!" cried the captain. "Surely not, sir," said the boatswain hastily. "Only going to help you, sir." "Help me! I believe he was going to hit out. Here, sir, what made you start away like that?" "He thought it was a shark, sir," cried Jem. "One's been about the boat all the aft'noon." "Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the captain sternly. "Here, you boy, what made you flinch!" "Thought I felt the shark touch me, sir," said Don, sullenly. "Oh, then I am to be thrown into the water because you are a cowardly young idiot," cried the captain. "I'll talk to you to-morrow. In with you, my lads, and give way." "There's no boathook!" cried the coxswain; and on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop. "Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook," said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook? Let's have the simple truth. One of the Maoris stole it, and you were afraid to speak?" "I was not afraid to speak the truth, sir," said Don; "and I told it." "But that's such a wild story. Your messmate could not have driven it into a shark over the hook." "I don't know whether it was driven in over the hook, sir," replied Don; "but it stuck in the fish's back and would not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not allowed to ask questions as to what's right or wrong." "But I was treated like a criminal," said Don. "You were treated far better than pressed men are as a rule especially those who try to break away. But I can't argue that with you. You and your companion are king's men now, or king's boys, and have to do your duty. Let's come back to to-day's work. The captain's offended, and I want to save you from trouble if I can." "It's very kind of you, sir," said Don. "Now tell me this. Do you know what you were going to do when the captain knocked you backwards?" Don was silent. "Well, I'll tell you," said the boatswain. "You were going to strike him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy. "Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say. The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that	on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop. "Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook," said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook? Let's have the simple truth. One of the Maoris stole it, and you were afraid to speak?" "I was not afraid to speak the truth, sir," said Don; "and I told it." "But that's such a wild story. Your messmate could not have driven it into a shark over the hook." "I don't know whether it was driven in over the hook, sir," replied Don; "but it stuck in the fish's back and would not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not allowed to ask questions as to what's right or wrong." "But I was treated like a criminal," said Don. "You were treated far better than pressed men are as a rule especially those who try to break away. But I can't argue that with you. You and your companion are king's men now, or king's boys, and have to do your duty. Let's come back to to-day's work. The captain's offended, and I want to save you from trouble if I can." "It's very kind of you, sir," said Don. "Now tell me this. Do you know what you were going to do when the captain knocked you backwards?" Don was silent. "Well, I'll tell you," said the boatswain. "You were going to strike him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem.<\|quote\|>"Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was	Don Lavington
"You don't have to think about me."	Mrs. Rattery	we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful	situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must	suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to	"Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm	up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought	I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask, "What are you going to do while you're waiting?" "I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because there's no one else in the flat. She leaves it locked up, empty, when she goes out... and she's out half the day. I know because I sometimes ring up and can't get an answer. He may not find her for hours... It may be as long	with that and... John. She didn't know she'd hurt him until quite a time afterwards... she was in the chemist's shop having a bandage put on her head, when they told her. She cut it falling. She was in a terrible state. I sent her back in the car... it wasn't her fault." "No, it wasn't anybody's fault. It just happened." "That's it," said Tony. "It just happened... how are we going to tell Brenda?" "One of us will have to go up." "Yes... I think I shall have to stay here. I don't know why really, but there will be things to see to. It's an awful thing to ask anyone to do..." "I'll go," said Jock. "There'll be things to see to there... there's got to be an inquest the doctor says. It's purely formal, of course, but it will be ghastly for that Ripon girl. She'll have to give evidence... she was in a terrible state. I hope I was all right to her. They'd just brought John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her... I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle." The two men stood in silence. Tony said, "Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask, "What are you going to do while you're waiting?" "I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because there's no one else in the flat. She leaves it locked up, empty, when she goes out... and she's out half the day. I know because I sometimes ring up and can't get an answer. He may not find her for hours... It may be as long again as the time since it happened. That would only make it eight o'clock. It's quite likely she won't come in until eight... Think of it, all the time between now and when it happened, before Brenda hears. It's scarcely credible, is it? And then she's got to get down here. There's a train that leaves at nine something. She might get that. I wonder if I ought to have gone up too... I didn't like to leave John." (Mrs Rattery sat intent over her game, moving little groups of cards adroitly backwards and forwards about the table like shuttles across a loom; under her fingers order grew out of chaos; she established sequence and precedence; the symbols before her became coherent, interrelated.) "...Of course she may be at home when he arrives. In that case she can get the evening train she used always to come by, when she went to London for the day, before she got the flat... I'm trying to see it all, as it's going to happen, Jock coming and her surprise at seeing him, and then his telling her... It's awful for Jock... She may know at half-past five or a bit earlier." "It's a pity you don't play patience," said Mrs Rattery. "In a way I shall feel happier when she knows... it feels all wrong as it is at present, having it as a secret that Brenda doesn't know... I'm not sure how she fits in her day. I suppose her last lecture is over at about five... I wonder if she goes home first to change if she's going out to tea or cocktails. She can't sit about much in the flat, it's so small." Mrs Rattery brooded over her chequer of cards and then drew them towards her into a heap, haphazard once more and without meaning; it had nearly come to a solution that time, but for a six of diamonds out of place, and a stubbornly congested patch at one corner, where nothing could be made to move. "It's a heart-breaking game," she said. The clock struck again. "Is that only a quarter-past?... You know, I think I should have gone off my head if I were alone. It's nice of you to stay with me." "Do you play bezique?" "I'm afraid not." "Or piquet?" "No. I've never been able to learn any card game except animal snap."	Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask, "What are you going to do while you're waiting?" "I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other."<\|quote\|>"You don't have to think about me."</\|quote\|>"But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because	A Handful Of Dust
"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"	Anne Shirley	held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver	the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could	they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables	must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said	in. "I'll take you down after milking." Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. "What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply. "I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan girl, would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynde." Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both	anything for you--if you really want me to--" "Well now, of course I do. It's terrible lonesome downstairs without you. Just go and smooth things over--that's a good girl." "Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Marilla as soon as she comes in I've repented." "That's right--that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar in and I promised not to do that." "Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne solemnly. "How would wild horses drag a secret from a person anyhow?" But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture lest Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over the banisters. "Well?" she said, going into the hall. "I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so." "Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down after milking." Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. "What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply. "I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan girl, would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynde." Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former under-stood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley of humiliation--was reveling in the thoroughness of her abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a species of positive pleasure. Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception, did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had made a very thorough apology and all resentment vanished from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart. "There, there, get up, child," she said heartily. "Of course I forgive you. I guess I was a little too hard on you, anyway. But I'm such an outspoken person. You just mustn't mind me, that's what. It can't be denied your hair is terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school with her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours when she was young, but when she grew up it darkened to a real handsome auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if yours did, too--not a mite." "Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long breath as she rose to her feet. "You have given me a hope.	the hall where he slept; once in a while he ventured uncomfortably into the parlor or sitting room when the minister came to tea. But he had never been upstairs in his own house since the spring he helped Marilla paper the spare bedroom, and that was four years ago. He tiptoed along the hall and stood for several minutes outside the door of the east gable before he summoned courage to tap on it with his fingers and then open the door to peep in. Anne was sitting on the yellow chair by the window gazing mournfully out into the garden. Very small and unhappy she looked, and Matthew's heart smote him. He softly closed the door and tiptoed over to her. "Anne," he whispered, as if afraid of being overheard, "how are you making it, Anne?" Anne smiled wanly. "Pretty well. I imagine a good deal, and that helps to pass the time. Of course, it's rather lonesome. But then, I may as well get used to that." Anne smiled again, bravely facing the long years of solitary imprisonment before her. Matthew recollected that he must say what he had come to say without loss of time, lest Marilla return prematurely. "Well now, Anne, don't you think you'd better do it and have it over with?" he whispered. "It'll have to be done sooner or later, you know, for Marilla's a dreadful deter-mined woman--dreadful determined, Anne. Do it right off, I say, and have it over." "Do you mean apologize to Mrs. Lynde?" "Yes--apologize--that's the very word," said Matthew eagerly. "Just smooth it over so to speak. That's what I was trying to get at." "I suppose I could do it to oblige you," said Anne thoughtfully. "It would be true enough to say I am sorry, because I _am_ sorry now. I wasn't a bit sorry last night. I was mad clear through, and I stayed mad all night. I know I did because I woke up three times and I was just furious every time. But this morning it was over. I wasn't in a temper anymore--and it left a dreadful sort of goneness, too. I felt so ashamed of myself. But I just couldn't think of going and telling Mrs. Lynde so. It would be so humiliating. I made up my mind I'd stay shut up here forever rather than do that. But still--I'd do anything for you--if you really want me to--" "Well now, of course I do. It's terrible lonesome downstairs without you. Just go and smooth things over--that's a good girl." "Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Marilla as soon as she comes in I've repented." "That's right--that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar in and I promised not to do that." "Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne solemnly. "How would wild horses drag a secret from a person anyhow?" But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture lest Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over the banisters. "Well?" she said, going into the hall. "I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so." "Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down after milking." Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. "What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply. "I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan girl, would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynde." Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former under-stood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley of humiliation--was reveling in the thoroughness of her abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a species of positive pleasure. Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception, did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had made a very thorough apology and all resentment vanished from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart. "There, there, get up, child," she said heartily. "Of course I forgive you. I guess I was a little too hard on you, anyway. But I'm such an outspoken person. You just mustn't mind me, that's what. It can't be denied your hair is terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school with her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours when she was young, but when she grew up it darkened to a real handsome auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if yours did, too--not a mite." "Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long breath as she rose to her feet. "You have given me a hope. I shall always feel that you are a benefactor. Oh, I could endure anything if I only thought my hair would be a handsome auburn when I grew up. It would be so much easier to be good if one's hair was a handsome auburn, don't you think? And now may I go out into your garden and sit on that bench under the apple-trees while you and Marilla are talking? There is so much more scope for imagination out there." "Laws, yes, run along, child. And you can pick a bouquet of them white June lilies over in the corner if you like." As the door closed behind Anne Mrs. Lynde got briskly up to light a lamp. "She's a real odd little thing. Take this chair, Marilla; it's easier than the one you've got; I just keep that for the hired boy to sit on. Yes, she certainly is an odd child, but there is something kind of taking about her after all. I don't feel so surprised at you and Matthew keeping her as I did--nor so sorry for you, either. She may turn out all right. Of course, she has a queer way of expressing herself--a little too--well, too kind of forcible, you know; but she'll likely get over that now that she's come to live among civilized folks. And then, her temper's pretty quick, I guess; but there's one comfort, a child that has a quick temper, just blaze up and cool down, ain't never likely to be sly or deceitful. Preserve me from a sly child, that's what. On the whole, Marilla, I kind of like her." When Marilla went home Anne came out of the fragrant twilight of the orchard with a sheaf of white narcissi in her hands. "I apologized pretty well, didn't I?" she said proudly as they went down the lane. "I thought since I had to do it I might as well do it thoroughly." "You did it thoroughly, all right enough," was Marilla's comment. Marilla was dismayed at finding herself inclined to laugh over the recollection. She had also an uneasy feeling that she ought to scold Anne for apologizing so well; but then, that was ridiculous! She compromised with her conscience by saying severely: "I hope you won't have occasion to make many more such apologies. I hope you'll try to control your temper now, Anne." "That	"Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Marilla as soon as she comes in I've repented." "That's right--that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar in and I promised not to do that." "Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne solemnly. "How would wild horses drag a secret from a person anyhow?" But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture lest Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over the banisters. "Well?" she said, going into the hall. "I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so." "Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down after milking." Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. "What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply. "I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.<\|quote\|>"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,"</\|quote\|>she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you--and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan girl, would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynde." Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former under-stood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley of humiliation--was reveling in the thoroughness of her abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a species of positive pleasure. Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception, did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had made a very thorough apology and all resentment vanished from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart. "There, there, get up, child," she said heartily. "Of course I forgive you. I guess I was a little too hard on you, anyway. But I'm such an outspoken person. You just mustn't mind me, that's what. It can't be denied your hair is terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school with her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours when she was young, but when she grew up it darkened to a real handsome auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if yours did, too--not a mite." "Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long breath as she rose to her feet. "You have given me a hope. I shall always feel that you are a benefactor. Oh, I could endure anything if I only thought my hair would be a handsome auburn when I grew up. It would be so much easier to be good if one's hair was a handsome auburn, don't you think? And now may I go out into your garden and sit on that bench under the apple-trees while you and Marilla are talking? There is so much more scope for imagination out there." "Laws, yes, run along, child. And you can pick a bouquet of them white June lilies over in the corner if you like." As the door closed behind Anne Mrs. Lynde got briskly up to light a lamp. "She's a real odd little thing. Take this chair, Marilla; it's easier than the one you've got; I just keep that for the	Anne Of Green Gables
"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."	Katharine Hilbery	had stuck to her memory:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>Thus occupied, she did not	to herself some lines which had stuck to her memory:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>Thus occupied, she did not see Denham, and he had	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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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	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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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	greenish and yellowish artificial light were being poured into an atmosphere which, in country lanes, would now have been soft with the smoke of wood fires; and on both sides of the road the shop windows were full of sparkling chains and highly polished leather cases, which stood upon shelves made of thick plate-glass. None of these different objects was seen separately by Denham, but from all of them he drew an impression of stir and cheerfulness. Thus it came about that he saw Katharine Hilbery coming towards him, and looked straight at her, as if she were 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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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	serious, and rather less dictatorial at home, for he was apt to hear Mary laughing at him, and telling him, as she was fond of doing, that he knew nothing at all about anything. She made him, also, take an interest in public questions, for which she had a natural liking; and was in process of turning him from Tory to Radical, after a course of public meetings, which began by boring him acutely, and ended by exciting him even more than they excited her. But he was reserved; when ideas started up in his mind, he divided them automatically into those he could discuss with Mary, and those he must keep for himself. She knew this and it interested her, for she was accustomed to find young men very ready to talk about themselves, and had come to listen to them as one listens to children, without any thought of herself. But with Ralph, she had very little of this maternal feeling, and, in consequence, a much keener sense of her own individuality. Late one afternoon Ralph stepped along the Strand to an interview with a lawyer upon business. The afternoon light was almost over, and already streams of greenish and yellowish artificial light were being poured into an atmosphere which, in country lanes, would now have been soft with the smoke of wood fires; and on both sides of the road the shop windows were full of sparkling chains and highly polished leather cases, which stood upon shelves made of thick plate-glass. None of these different objects was seen separately by Denham, but from all of them he drew an impression of stir and cheerfulness. Thus it came about that he saw Katharine Hilbery coming towards him, and looked straight at her, as if she were 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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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	who took their own work more lightly, and, if they foretold his advancement, it was not altogether sympathetically. Indeed, he appeared to be rather a hard and self-sufficient young man, with a queer temper, and manners that were uncompromisingly abrupt, who was consumed with a desire to get on in the world, which was natural, these critics thought, in a man of no means, but not engaging. The young men in the office had a perfect right to these opinions, because Denham showed no particular desire for their friendship. He liked them well enough, but shut them up in that compartment of life which was devoted to work. Hitherto, indeed, he had found little difficulty in arranging his life as methodically as he arranged his expenditure, but about this time he began to encounter experiences which were not so easy to classify. Mary Datchet had begun this confusion two years ago by bursting into laughter at some remark of his, almost the first time they met. She could not explain why it was. She thought him quite astonishingly odd. When he knew her well enough to tell her how he spent Monday and Wednesday and Saturday, she was still more amused; she laughed till he laughed, too, without knowing why. It seemed to her very odd that he should know as much about breeding bulldogs as any man in England; that he had a collection of wild flowers found near London; and his weekly visit to old Miss Trotter at Ealing, who was an authority upon the science of Heraldry, never failed to excite her laughter. She wanted to know everything, even the kind of cake which the old lady supplied on these occasions; and their summer excursions to churches in the neighborhood of London for the purpose of taking rubbings of the brasses became most important festivals, from the interest she took in them. In six months she knew more about his odd friends and hobbies than his own brothers and sisters knew, after living with him all his life; and Ralph found this very pleasant, though disordering, for his own view of himself had always been profoundly serious. Certainly it was very pleasant to be with Mary Datchet and to become, directly the door was shut, quite a different sort of person, eccentric and lovable, with scarcely any likeness to the self most people knew. He became less serious, and rather less dictatorial at home, for he was apt to hear Mary laughing at him, and telling him, as she was fond of doing, that he knew nothing at all about anything. She made him, also, take an interest in public questions, for which she had a natural liking; and was in process of turning him from Tory to Radical, after a course of public meetings, which began by boring him acutely, and ended by exciting him even more than they excited her. But he was reserved; when ideas started up in his mind, he divided them automatically into those he could discuss with Mary, and those he must keep for himself. She knew this and it interested her, for she was accustomed to find young men very ready to talk about themselves, and had come to listen to them as one listens to children, without any thought of herself. But with Ralph, she had very little of this maternal feeling, and, in consequence, a much keener sense of her own individuality. Late one afternoon Ralph stepped along the Strand to an interview with a lawyer upon business. The afternoon light was almost over, and already streams of greenish and yellowish artificial light were being poured into an atmosphere which, in country lanes, would now have been soft with the smoke of wood fires; and on both sides of the road the shop windows were full of sparkling chains and highly polished leather cases, which stood upon shelves made of thick plate-glass. None of these different objects was seen separately by Denham, but from all of them he drew an impression of stir and cheerfulness. Thus it came about that he saw Katharine Hilbery coming towards him, and looked straight at her, as if she were 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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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. "But only a week ago you were saying the opposite." 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	the purpose of taking rubbings of the brasses became most important festivals, from the interest she took in them. In six months she knew more about his odd friends and hobbies than his own brothers and sisters knew, after living with him all his life; and Ralph found this very pleasant, though disordering, for his own view of himself had always been profoundly serious. Certainly it was very pleasant to be with Mary Datchet and to become, directly the door was shut, quite a different sort of person, eccentric and lovable, with scarcely any likeness to the self most people knew. He became less serious, and rather less dictatorial at home, for he was apt to hear Mary laughing at him, and telling him, as she was fond of doing, that he knew nothing at all about anything. She made him, also, take an interest in public questions, for which she had a natural liking; and was in process of turning him from Tory to Radical, after a course of public meetings, which began by boring him acutely, and ended by exciting him even more than they excited her. But he was reserved; when ideas started up in his mind, he divided them automatically into those he could discuss with Mary, and those he must keep for himself. She knew this and it interested her, for she was accustomed to find young men very ready to talk about themselves, and had come to listen to them as one listens to children, without any thought of herself. But with Ralph, she had very little of this maternal feeling, and, in consequence, a much keener sense of her own individuality. Late one afternoon Ralph stepped along the Strand to an interview with a lawyer upon business. The afternoon light was almost over, and already streams of greenish and yellowish artificial light were being poured into an atmosphere which, in country lanes, would now have been soft with the smoke of wood fires; and on both sides of the road the shop windows were full of sparkling chains and highly polished leather cases, which stood upon shelves made of thick plate-glass. None of these different objects was seen separately by Denham, but from all of them he drew an impression of stir and cheerfulness. Thus it came about that he saw Katharine Hilbery coming towards him, and looked straight at her, as if she were 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:<\|quote\|>"It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all."</\|quote\|>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."	Night And Day
"Miss Schlegel"	Henry	world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I	not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on	Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and	which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said,	of them. "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren t offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was	will be to-morrow afternoon, I ll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you yes or no." "Right. The dining-room." And they began their survey. The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said Margaret, sinking into one of them. "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren t offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was a moment s pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. "Good-bye," she continued. "You will have a letter from me--I am going back to Swanage to-morrow." "Thank you." "Good-bye, and it s you I thank." "I may order the motor round, mayn t I?" "That would be most kind." "I wish I had written. Ought I to have written?" "Not at all." "There s just one question--" She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered as they parted. They parted without shaking hands; she had kept the interview, for his sake, in tints of the quietest grey. She thrilled with happiness ere she reached her house. Others had loved her in the past, if one apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but the others had been "ninnies"--young men who had nothing to do, old men who could find nobody better.	that she supposed herself to have already lost--not youth s creative power, but its self-confidence and optimism. He was so sure that it was a very pleasant world. His complexion was robust, his hair had receded but not thinned, the thick moustache and the eyes that Helen had compared to brandy-balls had an agreeable menace in them, whether they were turned towards the slums or towards the stars. Some day--in the millennium--there may be no need for his type. At present, homage is due to it from those who think themselves superior, and who possibly are. "At all events you responded to my telegram promptly," he remarked. "Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it." "I m glad you don t despise the goods of this world." "Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that." "I am glad, very glad," he repeated, suddenly softening and turning to her, as if the remark had pleased him. "There is so much cant talked in would-be intellectual circles. I am glad you don t share it. Self-denial is all very well as a means of strengthening the character. But I can t stand those people who run down comforts. They have usually some axe to grind. Can you?" "Comforts are of two kinds," said Margaret, who was keeping herself in hand--" "those we can share with others, like fire, weather, or music; and those we can t--food, food, for instance. It depends." "I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn t like to think that you--" He bent nearer; the sentence died unfinished. Margaret s head turned very stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour was half-past twelve, and the car was passing by the stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was so charged with emotion that people only seemed to exist on her account, and she was surprised that Crane did not realise this, and turn round. Idiot though she might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more--how should one put it?--more psychological than usual. Always a good judge of character for business purposes, he seemed this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside neatness, obedience, and decision. "I want to go over the whole house," she announced when they arrived. "As soon as I get back to Swanage, which will be to-morrow afternoon, I ll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you yes or no." "Right. The dining-room." And they began their survey. The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said Margaret, sinking into one of them. "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren t offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was a moment s pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. "Good-bye," she continued. "You will have a letter from me--I am going back to Swanage to-morrow." "Thank you." "Good-bye, and it s you I thank." "I may order the motor round, mayn t I?" "That would be most kind." "I wish I had written. Ought I to have written?" "Not at all." "There s just one question--" She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered as they parted. They parted without shaking hands; she had kept the interview, for his sake, in tints of the quietest grey. She thrilled with happiness ere she reached her house. Others had loved her in the past, if one apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but the others had been "ninnies"--young men who had nothing to do, old men who could find nobody better. And she had often loved, too, but only so far as the facts of sex demanded: mere yearnings for the masculine sex to be dismissed for what they were worth, with a sigh. Never before had her personality been touched. She was not young or very rich, and it amazed her that a man of any standing should take her seriously. As she sat, trying to do accounts in her empty house, amidst beautiful pictures and noble books, waves of emotion broke, as if a tide of passion was flowing through the night air. She shook her head, tried to concentrate her attention, and failed. In vain did she repeat: "But I ve been through this sort of thing before." She had never been through it; the big machinery, as opposed to the little, had been set in motion, and the idea that Mr. Wilcox loved, obsessed her before she came to love him in return. She would come to no decision yet. "Oh, sir, this is so sudden"--that prudish phrase exactly expressed her when her time came. Premonitions are not preparation. She must examine more closely her own nature and his; she must talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been a strange love-scene--the central radiance unacknowledged from first to last. She, in his place, would have said Ich liebe dich, but perhaps it was not his habit to open the heart. He might have done it if she had pressed him--as a matter of duty, perhaps; England expects every man to open his heart once; but the effort would have jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it, should he lose those defences that he had chosen to raise against the world. He must never be bothered with emotional talk, or with a display of sympathy. He was an elderly man now, and it would be futile and impudent to correct him. Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost; surveying the scene, thought Margaret, without one hint of bitterness. CHAPTER XIX If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps the wisest course would be to take him to the final section of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their summit, a few miles to the east of Corfe. Then system after system of our island would roll together under his feet. Beneath him is the valley of the Frome, and all	and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said Margaret, sinking into one of them. "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It s all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn t it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life s realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world s great love scenes.<\|quote\|>"Miss Schlegel"</\|quote\|>"--his voice was firm--" "I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don t understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren t offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was a moment s pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. "Good-bye," she continued. "You will have a letter from me--I am going back to Swanage to-morrow." "Thank you." "Good-bye, and it s you I thank." "I may order the motor round, mayn t I?" "That would be most kind." "I wish I had written. Ought I to have written?" "Not at all." "There s just one question--" She shook her head. He looked a	Howards End
"Before either."	Basil Hallward	the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come	out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you,	the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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	a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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	saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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	except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn t really want it, and I really do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray; "and I don t allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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,	will mock me some day mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. "This is your doing, Harry," said the painter bitterly. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray that is all." "It is not." "If it is not, what have I to do with it?" "You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered. "I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry s answer. "Harry, I can t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them." Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. "Don t, Basil, don t!" he cried. "It would be murder!" "I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you would." "Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that." "Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?" "I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge of the complex. But I don t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn t really want it, and I really do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray; "and I don t allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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,	rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn t really want it, and I really do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray; "and I don t allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"<\|quote\|>"Before either."</\|quote\|>"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and 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	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.	No speaker	don't think now as--" "Well?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked	begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--" "Well?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money,	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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"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,	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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"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,	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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked	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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man,	him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord. Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard. Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited. "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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again." "Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been robbed, and that Don--my boy--oh, no, no, no; say it is not true." Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman's manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child. "I say it is not true," she cried. "You undertook to be a father to my poor boy, and now you charge him with having robbed you." "Laura, be calm," said the old merchant, quietly; "and you had better take Kitty back home and wait." "You have always been too stern and harsh with the poor boy," continued Mrs Lavington, without heeding him. "I was foolish ever to come and trust 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	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?"<\|quote\|>said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.</\|quote\|>"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?" "No, no, my man, of course not." "Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about Master Don--" "What do you wish to say, man?" "Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike Bannock's doing, and--" "I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you." "Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the door before he opened it again. "Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty." Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother! What would Uncle Josiah say? Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office. Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned and looked straight down at the floor. "Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place." "I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her brother when he was in one of his stern moods. "Heard? Well, what did you hear?" "Such terrible news, Josiah." "Well, well, what?" "Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and caught his hand, "tell me it is not true." "How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you think I have not worries enough without your coming here?" "Yes, yes; I know, dear." "And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right." "I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I were out shopping, and we met a crowd." "Then you should have turned down a side street." "But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little Sally Wimble following." "Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again." "Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been robbed, and that Don--my boy--oh, no, no, no; say it is not true." Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman's manner had entirely changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking, affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her child. "I say it is not true," she cried. "You undertook to be a father to my poor	Don Lavington
he demanded impetuously.	No speaker	foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his	examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About	from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here!	we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when	to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?” He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse. “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.” Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering. “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I	he was a German spy during the war.” One of the men nodded in confirmation. “I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us positively. “Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.” She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world. The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?” He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse. “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.” Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering. “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.” “Has it?” “A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—” “You told us.” We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors. There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to	came up. “I remembered you lived next door to—” She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps. “Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week before. “You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.” “You’ve dyed your hair since then,” remarked Jordan, and I started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” “Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. “Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.” “There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with anybody.” “Who doesn’t?” I inquired. “Gatsby. Somebody told me—” The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially. “Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.” A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly. “I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s more that he was a German spy during the war.” One of the men nodded in confirmation. “I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,” he assured us positively. “Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.” She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world. The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?” He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse. “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.” Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering. “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.” “Has it?” “A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—” “You told us.” We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors. There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn. I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and profound. At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled. “Your face is familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?” “Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.” “I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning. “Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.” “What time?” “Any time that suits you best.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked around and smiled. “Having a gay time now?” she inquired. “Much better.” I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.” For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand. “I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly. “What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” “I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.” He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and	supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety. “Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?”<\|quote\|>he demanded impetuously.</\|quote\|>“About what?” He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.” “The books?” He nodded. “Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.” Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. “See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?” He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse. “Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.” Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering. “I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.” “Has it?” “A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—” “You told us.” We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors. There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage	The Great Gatsby
said he,	No speaker	to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when	I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw	prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place	dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be	have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say;	remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?" "I will tell you," replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable." "I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come and thank you when I have obtained what I am seeking." After these words, to which the dervish made no other answer than that he should be overjoyed to see him again, the prince mounted his horse, took leave of the dervish with a respectful salute, and threw the bowl before him. The bowl rolled away with as much swiftness as when Prince Bahman first hurled it from his hand, which obliged him to put his horse to the same pace to avoid losing sight of it, and when it had reached the foot of the mountain it stopped. The prince alighted from his horse, laid the bridle on his neck, and having first surveyed the mountain and seen	give him information of the place he was in search of, stopped when he came near the dervish, alighted, in conformity to the directions which the devout woman had given the Princess Periezade, and leading his horse by the bridle, advanced toward him and saluting him, said: "God prolong your days, good father, and grant you the accomplishment of your desires." The dervish returned the prince's salutation, but so unintelligibly that he could not understand one word he said and Prince Bahman, perceiving that this difficulty proceeded from the dervish's whiskers hanging over his mouth, and unwilling to go any further without the instructions he wanted, pulled out a pair of scissors he had about him, and having tied his horse to a branch of the tree, said: "Good dervish, I want to have some talk with you, but your whiskers prevent my understanding what you say; and if you will consent, I will cut off some part of them and of your eyebrows, which disfigure you so much that you look more like a bear than a man." The dervish did not oppose the offer, and when the prince had cut off as much hair as he thought fit, he perceived that the dervish had a good complexion, and that he was not as old as he seemed. "Good dervish," said he, "if I had a glass I would show you how young you look: you are now a man, but before, nobody could tell what you were." The kind behaviour of Prince Bahman made the dervish smile and return his compliment. "Sir," said he, "whoever you are, I am obliged by the good office you have performed, and am ready to show my gratitude by doing anything in my power for you. You must have alighted here upon some account or other. Tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to serve you." "Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?" "I will tell you," replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable." "I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come and thank you when I have obtained what I am seeking." After these words, to which the dervish made no other answer than that he should be overjoyed to see him again, the prince mounted his horse, took leave of the dervish with a respectful salute, and threw the bowl before him. The bowl rolled away with as much swiftness as when Prince Bahman first hurled it from his hand, which obliged him to put his horse to the same pace to avoid losing sight of it, and when it had reached the foot of the mountain it stopped. The prince alighted from his horse, laid the bridle on his neck, and having first surveyed the mountain and seen the black stones, began to ascend, but had not gone four steps before he heard the voices mentioned by the dervish, though he could see nobody. Some said: "Where is that fool going? Where is he going? What would he have? Do not let him pass." Others: "Stop him, catch him, kill him:" and others with a voice like thunder: "Thief! assassin! murderer!" while some in a gibing tone cried: "No, no, do not hurt him; let the pretty fellow pass, the cage and bird are kept for him." Notwithstanding all these troublesome voices, Prince Bahman ascended with resolution for some time, but the voices redoubled with so loud a din, both behind 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	they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey." The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else." At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?" "I will tell you," replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home." Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me." When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice,"<\|quote\|>said he,</\|quote\|>"take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable." "I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come and thank you when I have obtained what I am seeking." After these words, to which the dervish made no other answer than that he should be overjoyed to see him again, the prince mounted his horse, took leave of the dervish with a respectful salute, and threw the bowl before him. The bowl rolled away with as much swiftness as when Prince Bahman first hurled it from his hand, which obliged him to put his horse to the same pace to avoid losing sight of it, and when it	Arabian Nights (1)
"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"	Fanny Price	she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction,	him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple	Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to	my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs.	Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real	she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?" "She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I	know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?" "If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not." "I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny." "If you cannot do without me, ma'am" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone. "But my mother will have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am." "That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all." There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment I have something to say to you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?" "She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five only five to be sitting round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say." Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again. "The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give _you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle _that_." "Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else." "And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen, and take your things accordingly." Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own	will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,<\|quote\|>"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?"</\|quote\|>In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five only five to be sitting round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say." Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again. "The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give	Mansfield Park
"Help, help!"	Piglet	moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a	and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered	but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the	shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great	there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began	Fond of Pigs, did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said	sort of way, when suddenly he remembered. He had put it into the Cunning Trap to catch the Heffalump. "Bother!" said Pooh. "It all comes of trying to be kind to Heffalumps." And he got back into bed. But he couldn't sleep. The more he tried to sleep, the more he couldn't. He tried Counting Sheep, which is sometimes a good way of getting to sleep, and, as that was no good, he tried counting Heffalumps. And that was worse. Because every Heffalump that he counted was making straight for a pot of Pooh's honey, _and eating it all_. For some minutes he lay there miserably, but when the five hundred and eighty-seventh Heffalump was licking its jaws, and saying to itself, "Very good honey this, I don't know when I've tasted better," Pooh could bear it no longer. He jumped out of bed, he ran out of the house, and he ran straight to the Six Pine Trees. The Sun was still in bed, but there was a lightness in the sky over the Hundred Acre Wood which seemed to show that it was waking up and would soon be kicking off the clothes. In the half-light the Pine Trees looked cold and lonely, and the Very Deep Pit seemed deeper than it was, and Pooh's jar of honey at the bottom was something mysterious, a shape and no more. But as he got nearer to it his nose told him that it was indeed honey, and his tongue came out and began to polish up his mouth, ready for it. "Bother!" said Pooh, as he got his nose inside the jar. "A Heffalump has been eating it!" And then he thought a little and said, "Oh, no, _I_ did. I forgot." Indeed, he had eaten most of it. But there was a little left at the very bottom of the jar, and he pushed his head right in, and began to lick.... By and by Piglet woke up. As soon as he woke he said to himself, "Oh!" Then he said bravely, "Yes," and then, still more bravely, "Quite so." But he didn't feel very brave, for the word which was really jiggeting about in his brain was "Heffalumps." What was a Heffalump like? Was it Fierce? _Did_ it come when you whistled? And _how_ did it come? Was it Fond of Pigs at all? If it was Fond of Pigs, did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being a Bear of Very Little Brain. So he sang _Cottleston Pie_ instead: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie._"" That was the first verse. When he had finished it, Eeyore didn't actually say that he didn't like it, so Pooh very kindly sang the second verse to him: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fish can't whistle and neither can I. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" Eeyore still said nothing at all, so Pooh hummed the third verse quietly to himself: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, Why does a chicken, I don't know why. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" "That's right," said Eeyore. "Sing. Umty-tiddly, umty-too. Here we go gathering Nuts and May. Enjoy yourself." "I am," said Pooh. "Some can," said Eeyore. "Why, what's the matter?" "_Is_ anything the matter?" "You seem so sad, Eeyore." "Sad? Why should I be sad? It's my birthday. The happiest day of the year." "Your birthday?" said Pooh in great surprise. "Of course it is. Can't you see? Look at all the presents I have had." He waved a foot from side to side. "Look at the birthday cake. Candles and pink sugar." Pooh looked--first to the right and then to the left. "Presents?" said Pooh. "Birthday cake?" said Pooh. "_Where?_" "Can't you see them?" "No," said Pooh. "Neither can I," said Eeyore. "Joke," he explained. "Ha ha!" Pooh scratched his head, being a little puzzled by all this. "But is it really your birthday?" he asked. "It is." "Oh! Well, Many	he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down.<\|quote\|>"Help, help!"</\|quote\|>cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_	Winnie The Pooh
"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."	Hercule Poirot	tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up	discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly	Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told	sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay." "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to	already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay." "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it." "What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon	removed. Six persons had taken coffee, and six cups were duly found. I had to confess myself mistaken." "Then I discovered that I had been guilty of a very grave oversight. Coffee had been brought in for seven persons, not six, for Dr. Bauerstein had been there that evening. This changed the face of the whole affair, for there was now one cup missing. The servants noticed nothing, since Annie, the housemaid, who took in the coffee, brought in seven cups, not knowing that Mr. Inglethorp never drank it, whereas Dorcas, who cleared them away the following morning, found six as usual or strictly speaking she found five, the sixth being the one found broken in Mrs. Inglethorp's room." "I was confident that the missing cup was that of Mademoiselle Cynthia. I had an additional reason for that belief in the fact that all the cups found contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never took in her coffee. My attention was attracted by the story of Annie about some salt' on the tray of cocoa which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. I accordingly secured a sample of that cocoa, and sent it to be analysed." "But that had already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay." "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it." "What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick." "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the cocoa contained no strychnine. The coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been administered between seven and nine o'clock that evening. What third medium was there a medium so suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?" Poirot looked round the room, and then answered himself impressively. "Her medicine!" "Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her tonic?" I cried. "There was no need to introduce it. It was already there in the mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine prescribed	She therefore opened the desk, and in searching for the stamps she came across something else that slip of paper which Dorcas saw in her hand, and which assuredly was never meant for Mrs. Inglethorp's eyes. On the other hand, Mrs. Cavendish believed that the slip of paper to which her mother-in-law clung so tenaciously was a written proof of her own husband's infidelity. She demanded it from Mrs. Inglethorp who assured her, quite truly, that it had nothing to do with that matter. Mrs. Cavendish did not believe her. She thought that Mrs. Inglethorp was shielding her stepson. Now Mrs. Cavendish is a very resolute woman, and, behind her mask of reserve, she was madly jealous of her husband. She determined to get hold of that paper at all costs, and in this resolution chance came to her aid. She happened to pick up the key of Mrs. Inglethorp's despatch-case, which had been lost that morning. She knew that her mother-in-law invariably kept all important papers in this particular case." "Mrs. Cavendish, therefore, made her plans as only a woman driven desperate through jealousy could have done. Some time in the evening she unbolted the door leading into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room. Possibly she applied oil to the hinges, for I found that it opened quite noiselessly when I tried it. She put off her project until the early hours of the morning as being safer, since the servants were accustomed to hearing her move about her room at that time. She dressed completely in her land kit, and made her way quietly through Mademoiselle Cynthia's room into that of Mrs. Inglethorp." He paused a moment, and Cynthia interrupted: "But I should have woken up if anyone had come through my room?" "Not if you were drugged, mademoiselle." "Drugged?" "_Mais, oui!_" "You remember" he addressed us collectively again "that through all the tumult and noise next door Mademoiselle Cynthia slept. That admitted of two possibilities. Either her sleep was feigned which I did not believe or her unconsciousness was indeed by artificial means." "With this latter idea in my mind, I examined all the coffee-cups most carefully, remembering that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had brought Mademoiselle Cynthia her coffee the night before. I took a sample from each cup, and had them analysed with no result. I had counted the cups carefully, in the event of one having been removed. Six persons had taken coffee, and six cups were duly found. I had to confess myself mistaken." "Then I discovered that I had been guilty of a very grave oversight. Coffee had been brought in for seven persons, not six, for Dr. Bauerstein had been there that evening. This changed the face of the whole affair, for there was now one cup missing. The servants noticed nothing, since Annie, the housemaid, who took in the coffee, brought in seven cups, not knowing that Mr. Inglethorp never drank it, whereas Dorcas, who cleared them away the following morning, found six as usual or strictly speaking she found five, the sixth being the one found broken in Mrs. Inglethorp's room." "I was confident that the missing cup was that of Mademoiselle Cynthia. I had an additional reason for that belief in the fact that all the cups found contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never took in her coffee. My attention was attracted by the story of Annie about some salt' on the tray of cocoa which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. I accordingly secured a sample of that cocoa, and sent it to be analysed." "But that had already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay." "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it." "What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick." "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the cocoa contained no strychnine. The coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been administered between seven and nine o'clock that evening. What third medium was there a medium so suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?" Poirot looked round the room, and then answered himself impressively. "Her medicine!" "Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her tonic?" I cried. "There was no need to introduce it. It was already there in the mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to you, I will read you an extract from a book on dispensing which I found in the Dispensary of the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:" "The following prescription has become famous in text books:" Strychninae Sulph. . . . . . 1 gr. Potass Bromide . . . . . . . 3vi Aqua ad. . . . . . . . . . . . . 3viii Fiat Mistura _This solution deposits in a few hours the greater part of the strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide in transparent crystals. A lady in England lost her life by taking a similar mixture: the precipitated strychnine collected at the bottom, and in taking the last dose she swallowed nearly all of it!_ "Now there was, of course, no bromide in Dr. Wilkins' prescription, but you will remember that I mentioned an empty box of bromide powders. One or two of those powders introduced into the full bottle of medicine would effectually precipitate the strychnine, as the book describes, and cause it to be taken in the last dose. You will learn later that the person who usually poured out Mrs. Inglethorp's medicine was always extremely careful not to shake the bottle, but to leave the sediment at the bottom of it undisturbed." "Throughout the case, there have been evidences that the tragedy was intended to take place on Monday evening. On that day, Mrs. Inglethorp's bell wire was neatly cut, and on Monday evening Mademoiselle Cynthia was spending the night with friends, so that Mrs. Inglethorp would have been quite alone in the right wing, completely shut off from help of any kind, and would have died, in all probability, before medical aid could have been summoned. But in her hurry to be in time for the village entertainment Mrs. Inglethorp forgot to take her medicine, and the next day she lunched away from home, so that the last and fatal dose was actually taken twenty-four hours later than had been anticipated by the murderer; and it is owing to that delay that the final proof the last link of the chain is now in my hands." Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper. "A letter in the murderer's own hand-writing, _mes amis!_ Had it been a little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp,	in the fact that all the cups found contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never took in her coffee. My attention was attracted by the story of Annie about some salt' on the tray of cocoa which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. I accordingly secured a sample of that cocoa, and sent it to be analysed." "But that had already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing."<\|quote\|>"We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours."</\|quote\|>Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay." "Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it." "What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick." "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
replied Oliver;	No speaker	"how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about	rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour	like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to	Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol	an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist. Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. "What's set you a snivelling now?" "Not _you_," replied Oliver, sharply. "There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!" "Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!" And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion. "Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in	as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration. That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery. And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist. Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. "What's set you a snivelling now?" "Not _you_," replied Oliver, sharply. "There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!" "Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!" And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion. "Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: "Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un." "What did you say?" inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly. "A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us," replied Noah, coolly. "And it's a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn't it?" Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground. A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his	you, sir" replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir." "Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard. CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses. For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be quite cheerful and contented conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration. That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery. And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist. Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. "What's set you a snivelling now?" "Not _you_," replied Oliver, sharply. "There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!" "Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!" And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion. "Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: "Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un." "What did you say?" inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly. "A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us," replied Noah, coolly. "And it's a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn't it?" Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground. A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known before. "He'll murder me!" blubbered Noah. "Charlotte! missis! Here's the new boy a murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad! Char lotte!" Noah's shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to come further down. "Oh, you little wretch!" screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training. "Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!" And between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society. Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him behind. This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears. "Bless her, she's going off!" said Charlotte. "A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!" "Oh! Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. "Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!" "Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am," was the reply. "I only hope this'll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma'am, when I come in." "Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the charity-boy. Noah, whose top waistcoat-button	which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses. For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be quite cheerful and contented conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration. That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery. And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist. Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal. "Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" "She's dead,"<\|quote\|>replied Oliver;</\|quote\|>"don't you say anything about her to me!" Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah. "Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!" "Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. "What's set you a snivelling now?" "Not _you_," replied Oliver, sharply. "There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!" "Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!" And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion. "Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: "Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un." "What did you say?" inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly. "A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us," replied Noah,	Oliver Twist
"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"	Jem Wimble	mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have	faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to	Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What	whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world."	I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know	who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side,	running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any more about it now." CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. BEFORE THE CAPTAIN. Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor. The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts. Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy. "Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say. The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as	dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries. More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman. "Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head. "Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me." "How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful. "Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me." "Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom-- Tom--?" "Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that." The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals. "Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only--" "Well, only what?" said Don. "They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.<\|quote\|>"This is what I hate in being a sailor,"</\|quote\|>grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting	Don Lavington
said Jem, quietly.	No speaker	that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another	slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think	not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over	tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat,"	great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and	as their steps invaded the solitudes where they indulged in their hunt for food. When they encountered a stream, which came foaming and plunging down from the mountain, after carefully trying its depth, Ngati still led the way. Hour after hour they tramped wearily on through the darkness, Ngati rarely speaking, but pausing now and then to help them over some rugged place. Everything in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries. "There now," said Jem. "Why, it's all right, Mas' Don; 'tarn't tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it's salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks'll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don't. What's them things like?" "Like very ripe apples, Jem, or medlars," replied Don, who had been tasting the fruit carefully. "That'll do, then. Pity we can't find some more of them eggs, and don't light a fire to cook 'em. I say, Ngati." The Maori looked at him inquiringly. "More, more," said Jem, holding up one of the eggs, and pointing to the ferny thicket. "No, no," said Ngati, shaking his head. "Moa, moa." He stooped down and held his hands apart in different directions, as if he were describing the shape of a moderate-sized oval pumpkin. Then, rising erect, he raised one hand to the	a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don." "Yes." "But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The warning came from Ngati; for just then the breeze seemed to sweep the faint roar of the torrent aside, and the shouting of the Maoris came loud and clear. "They're over the river," said Jem excitedly. "Well, I've got a spear in my hand, and I mean to die fighting for the sake of old Bristol and my little wife." CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. IN THE WOODS. "They're not over the river, Jem," said Don, impatiently. "I wish you wouldn't always look on the worst side of everything." "That's what your Uncle Josiah allus does with the sugar, Mas' Don. If the foots was werry treacley when he had a hogshead turned up to look at the bottom first, he allus used to say as all the rest was poor quality." "We're not dealing with sugar now." "No, Mas' Don; this here arn't half so sweet. I wish it was." "Hssh!" came from Ngati again. And for the rest of the night they followed him in silence along ravines, over rugged patches of mountain side, with the great fronds of the tree-ferns brushing their faces, and nocturnal birds rushing away from them as their steps invaded the solitudes where they indulged in their hunt for food. When they encountered a stream, which came foaming and plunging down from the mountain, after carefully trying its depth, Ngati still led the way. Hour after hour they tramped wearily on through the darkness, Ngati rarely speaking, but pausing now and then to help them over some rugged place. Everything in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries. "There now," said Jem. "Why, it's all right, Mas' Don; 'tarn't tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it's salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks'll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don't. What's them things like?" "Like very ripe apples, Jem, or medlars," replied Don, who had been tasting the fruit carefully. "That'll do, then. Pity we can't find some more of them eggs, and don't light a fire to cook 'em. I say, Ngati." The Maori looked at him inquiringly. "More, more," said Jem, holding up one of the eggs, and pointing to the ferny thicket. "No, no," said Ngati, shaking his head. "Moa, moa." He stooped down and held his hands apart in different directions, as if he were describing the shape of a moderate-sized oval pumpkin. Then, rising erect, he raised one hand to the full extent of his arm, bending the fingers so as to imitate the shape of a bird's head, pressed his head against his arm, placed the left arm close to his body and a little forward, and then began to stalk about slowly. "Moa, moa," he said, dropping his arm again, and pointing to the eggs, "Kiwi, kiwi." "Kiwi, kiwi," said Jem. "Can't make out what he means, Mas' Don; but it don't matter. Shall we suck the eggs raw?" He made a gesture as if to break one, but Ngati snatched it away. "No, no!" he cried sharply, and snatched the other away. "Pig!" ejaculated Jem. "Well, I do call that greedy." But if the chief was greedy over the eggs, which he secured in a roughly-made bag, of palm strips, ingeniously woven, he was generous enough over the fruit and palm, upon which they made a fair breakfast; after which Ngati examined Jem's wounds, and then signed to him to come down to the side of the stream, seizing him by the wrist, and half dragging him in his energetic way. "Is he going to drown me, Mas' Don?" "No, no, Jem. I know: he wants to bathe your wound." So it proved, for Ngati made him lie down by a pool, and tenderly washed the injuries, ending by applying some cool bruised leaves to the places, and binding them up with wild flax. This done, he examined Don's head, smiling with satisfaction because it was no worse. "Say, Mas' Don, it do feel comf'table. Why, he's quite a doctor, eh?" "What?" continued Jem, staring, as Ngati made signs. "He wants you to bathe his wounds. Your arm's painful, Jem; I'll do it." Ngati lay down by the pool, and, pulling up some moss, Don bathed a couple of ugly gashes and a stab, that was roughly plugged with fibre. The wounds were so bad that it was a wonder to both that the great fellow could keep about; but he appeared to bear them patiently enough, smiling with satisfaction as his attendant carefully washed them, and in imitation of what he had seen, applied bruised leaves and moss, and finally bound them up with native flax. Don shuddered more than once as he performed his task, and was glad when it was over, Jem looking on calmly the while. "Why, Mas' Don, a chap at home would	in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you,"<\|quote\|>said Jem, quietly.</\|quote\|>"We don't understand one another much, but I do think you a good fellow, Ngati; so I shake hands hearty; and I'll stand by you, mate, as you've stood by me." "Good, good," said Ngati, smiling, as if he understood all. Then, looking grave and pained again, he pointed over the mountain. "Maori kill," he said. "Want eat?" "Yes; eat, eat," said Jem, making signs with his mouth. "Pig--meat." "No pig; no meat," said Ngati, grasping the meaning directly; and going to a palm-like tree, he broke out some of its tender growth and handed it to his companions. "Eat," he said; and he began to munch some of it himself. "Look at that now," said Jem. "I should ha' gone by that tree a hundred times without thinking it was good to eat. What's it like, Mas' Don?" "Something like stalky celery, or nut, or pear, all mixed up together." "Yes; 'tarn't bad," said Jem. "What's he doing now?" Ngati was busily hunting about for something, peering amongst the trees, but he did not seem to find that of which he was in search. He uttered a cry of satisfaction the next minute, though, as he stooped down and took a couple of eggs from a nest upon the ground. "Good--good!" he exclaimed, eagerly; and he gave them to Don to carry, while he once more resumed his search, which this time was successful, for he found a young tree, and stripped from its branches a large number of its olive-like berries. "There now," said Jem. "Why, it's all right, Mas' Don; 'tarn't tea and coffee, and bread and butter, but it's salad and eggs and fruit. Why, fighting cocks'll be nothing to it. We shall live like princes, see if we don't. What's them things like?" "Like very ripe apples, Jem, or medlars," replied Don, who had been tasting the fruit carefully. "That'll do, then. Pity we can't find some more of them eggs, and don't light a fire to cook 'em. I say, Ngati." The Maori looked	Don Lavington
"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"	The General	good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I	by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come	larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him	and some wine, and was charged for the idyllic repast a thaler and a half. Not until eleven o clock did I return home to find a summons awaiting me from the General. Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; each of which contained two rooms. The first (the larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him and to the Baroness?" "No, I have not." "But I understand that you simply terrified them, my good sir?" shouted the General. "Not in the least," I replied. "You must know that when I was in Berlin I frequently used to hear the Berliners repeat, and repellently prolong, a certain	of her seat, I saw her rise and set out with the children towards the hotel. At the portico I caught up to her. "I have perpetrated the the piece of idiocy," I said as I came level with her. "Have you? Then you can take the consequences," she replied without so much as looking at me. Then she moved towards the staircase. I spent the rest of the evening walking in the park. Thence I passed into the forest, and walked on until I found myself in a neighbouring principality. At a wayside restaurant I partook of an omelette and some wine, and was charged for the idyllic repast a thaler and a half. Not until eleven o clock did I return home to find a summons awaiting me from the General. Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; each of which contained two rooms. The first (the larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him and to the Baroness?" "No, I have not." "But I understand that you simply terrified them, my good sir?" shouted the General. "Not in the least," I replied. "You must know that when I was in Berlin I frequently used to hear the Berliners repeat, and repellently prolong, a certain phrase namely," Ja wohl! ; "and, happening to meet this couple in the carriage-drive, I found, for some reason or another, that this phrase suddenly recurred to my memory, and exercised a rousing effect upon my spirits. Moreover, on the three previous occasions that I have met the Baroness she has walked towards me as though I were a worm which could easily be crushed with the foot. Not unnaturally, I too possess a measure of self-respect; wherefore, on _this_ occasion I took off my hat, and said politely (yes, I assure you it was said politely):" Madame, j ai	some of the passers-by also began to stare at us, and others of them halted outright. "Hein!" the Baron vociferated again, with a redoubled growl and a note of growing wrath in his voice. "Ja wohl!" I replied, still looking him in the eyes. "Sind Sie rasend?" he exclaimed, brandishing his stick, and, apparently, beginning to feel nervous. Perhaps it was my costume which intimidated him, for I was well and fashionably dressed, after the manner of a man who belongs to indisputably good society. "Ja wo-o-ohl!" cried I again with all my might with a longdrawn rolling of the "ohl" sound after the fashion of the Berliners (who constantly use the phrase "Ja wohl!" in conversation, and more or less prolong the syllable "ohl" according as they desire to express different shades of meaning or of mood). At this the Baron and the Baroness faced sharply about, and almost fled in their alarm. Some of the bystanders gave vent to excited exclamations, and others remained staring at me in astonishment. But I do not remember the details very well. Wheeling quietly about, I returned in the direction of Polina Alexandrovna. But, when I had got within a hundred paces of her seat, I saw her rise and set out with the children towards the hotel. At the portico I caught up to her. "I have perpetrated the the piece of idiocy," I said as I came level with her. "Have you? Then you can take the consequences," she replied without so much as looking at me. Then she moved towards the staircase. I spent the rest of the evening walking in the park. Thence I passed into the forest, and walked on until I found myself in a neighbouring principality. At a wayside restaurant I partook of an omelette and some wine, and was charged for the idyllic repast a thaler and a half. Not until eleven o clock did I return home to find a summons awaiting me from the General. Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; each of which contained two rooms. The first (the larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him and to the Baroness?" "No, I have not." "But I understand that you simply terrified them, my good sir?" shouted the General. "Not in the least," I replied. "You must know that when I was in Berlin I frequently used to hear the Berliners repeat, and repellently prolong, a certain phrase namely," Ja wohl! ; "and, happening to meet this couple in the carriage-drive, I found, for some reason or another, that this phrase suddenly recurred to my memory, and exercised a rousing effect upon my spirits. Moreover, on the three previous occasions that I have met the Baroness she has walked towards me as though I were a worm which could easily be crushed with the foot. Not unnaturally, I too possess a measure of self-respect; wherefore, on _this_ occasion I took off my hat, and said politely (yes, I assure you it was said politely):" Madame, j ai l honneur d tre votre esclave. "Then the Baron turned round, and said" Hein! ; "whereupon I felt moved to ejaculate in answer" Ja wohl! "Twice I shouted it at him the first time in an ordinary tone, and the second time with the greatest prolonging of the words of which I was capable. That is all." I must confess that this puerile explanation gave me great pleasure. I felt a strong desire to overlay the incident with an even added measure of grossness; so, the further I proceeded, the more did the gusto of my proceeding increase. "You are only making fun of me!" vociferated the General as, turning to the Frenchman, he declared that my bringing about of the incident had been gratuitous. De Griers smiled contemptuously, and shrugged his shoulders. "Do not think _that_," I put in. "It was not so at all. I grant you that my behaviour was bad I fully confess that it was so, and make no secret of the fact. I would even go so far as to grant you that my behaviour might well be called stupid and indecent tomfoolery; but, _more_ than that it was not. Also, let me tell	so peculiar had been her look as she stood confronting him. Ever since that evening I have loved her. But to my tale. I stepped from the path into the carriage-way, and took my stand in the middle of it. There I awaited the Baron and the Baroness. When they were but a few paces distant from me I took off my hat, and bowed. I remember that the Baroness was clad in a voluminous silk dress, pale grey in colour, and adorned with flounces and a crinoline and train. Also, she was short and inordinately stout, while her gross, flabby chin completely concealed her neck. Her face was purple, and the little eyes in it had an impudent, malicious expression. Yet she walked as though she were conferring a favour upon everybody by so doing. As for the Baron, he was tall, wizened, bony-faced after the German fashion, spectacled, and, apparently, about forty-five years of age. Also, he had legs which seemed to begin almost at his chest or, rather, at his chin! Yet, for all his air of peacock-like conceit, his clothes sagged a little, and his face wore a sheepish air which might have passed for profundity. These details I noted within a space of a few seconds. At first my bow and the fact that I had my hat in my hand barely caught their attention. The Baron only scowled a little, and the Baroness swept straight on. "Madame la Baronne," said I, loudly and distinctly embroidering each word, as it were "j ai l honneur d tre votre esclave." Then I bowed again, put on my hat, and walked past the Baron with a rude smile on my face. Polina had ordered me merely to take off my hat: the bow and the general effrontery were of my own invention. God knows what instigated me to perpetrate the outrage! In my frenzy I felt as though I were walking on air. "Hein!" ejaculated or, rather, growled the Baron as he turned towards me in angry surprise. I too turned round, and stood waiting in pseudo-courteous expectation. Yet still I wore on my face an impudent smile as I gazed at him. He seemed to hesitate, and his brows contracted to their utmost limits. Every moment his visage was growing darker. The Baroness also turned in my direction, and gazed at me in wrathful perplexity, while some of the passers-by also began to stare at us, and others of them halted outright. "Hein!" the Baron vociferated again, with a redoubled growl and a note of growing wrath in his voice. "Ja wohl!" I replied, still looking him in the eyes. "Sind Sie rasend?" he exclaimed, brandishing his stick, and, apparently, beginning to feel nervous. Perhaps it was my costume which intimidated him, for I was well and fashionably dressed, after the manner of a man who belongs to indisputably good society. "Ja wo-o-ohl!" cried I again with all my might with a longdrawn rolling of the "ohl" sound after the fashion of the Berliners (who constantly use the phrase "Ja wohl!" in conversation, and more or less prolong the syllable "ohl" according as they desire to express different shades of meaning or of mood). At this the Baron and the Baroness faced sharply about, and almost fled in their alarm. Some of the bystanders gave vent to excited exclamations, and others remained staring at me in astonishment. But I do not remember the details very well. Wheeling quietly about, I returned in the direction of Polina Alexandrovna. But, when I had got within a hundred paces of her seat, I saw her rise and set out with the children towards the hotel. At the portico I caught up to her. "I have perpetrated the the piece of idiocy," I said as I came level with her. "Have you? Then you can take the consequences," she replied without so much as looking at me. Then she moved towards the staircase. I spent the rest of the evening walking in the park. Thence I passed into the forest, and walked on until I found myself in a neighbouring principality. At a wayside restaurant I partook of an omelette and some wine, and was charged for the idyllic repast a thaler and a half. Not until eleven o clock did I return home to find a summons awaiting me from the General. Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; each of which contained two rooms. The first (the larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him and to the Baroness?" "No, I have not." "But I understand that you simply terrified them, my good sir?" shouted the General. "Not in the least," I replied. "You must know that when I was in Berlin I frequently used to hear the Berliners repeat, and repellently prolong, a certain phrase namely," Ja wohl! ; "and, happening to meet this couple in the carriage-drive, I found, for some reason or another, that this phrase suddenly recurred to my memory, and exercised a rousing effect upon my spirits. Moreover, on the three previous occasions that I have met the Baroness she has walked towards me as though I were a worm which could easily be crushed with the foot. Not unnaturally, I too possess a measure of self-respect; wherefore, on _this_ occasion I took off my hat, and said politely (yes, I assure you it was said politely):" Madame, j ai l honneur d tre votre esclave. "Then the Baron turned round, and said" Hein! ; "whereupon I felt moved to ejaculate in answer" Ja wohl! "Twice I shouted it at him the first time in an ordinary tone, and the second time with the greatest prolonging of the words of which I was capable. That is all." I must confess that this puerile explanation gave me great pleasure. I felt a strong desire to overlay the incident with an even added measure of grossness; so, the further I proceeded, the more did the gusto of my proceeding increase. "You are only making fun of me!" vociferated the General as, turning to the Frenchman, he declared that my bringing about of the incident had been gratuitous. De Griers smiled contemptuously, and shrugged his shoulders. "Do not think _that_," I put in. "It was not so at all. I grant you that my behaviour was bad I fully confess that it was so, and make no secret of the fact. I would even go so far as to grant you that my behaviour might well be called stupid and indecent tomfoolery; but, _more_ than that it was not. Also, let me tell you that I am very sorry for my conduct. Yet there is one circumstance which, in my eyes, almost absolves me from regret in the matter. Of late that is to say, for the last two or three weeks I have been feeling not at all well. That is to say, I have been in a sick, nervous, irritable, fanciful condition, so that I have periodically lost control over myself. For instance, on more than one occasion I have tried to pick a quarrel even with Monsieur le Marquise here; and, under the circumstances, he had no choice but to answer me. In short, I have recently been showing signs of ill-health. Whether the Baroness Burmergelm will take this circumstance into consideration when I come to beg her pardon (for I _do_ intend to make her amends) I do not know; but I doubt if she will, and the less so since, so far as I know, the circumstance is one which, of late, has begun to be abused in the legal world, in that advocates in criminal cases have taken to justifying their clients on the ground that, at the moment of the crime, they (the clients) were unconscious of what they were doing that, in short, they were out of health. My client committed the murder that is true; but he has no recollection of having committed it. And doctors actually support these advocates by affirming that there really is such a malady that there really _can_ arise temporary delusions which make a man remember nothing of a given deed, or only a half or a quarter of it! But the Baron and Baroness are members of an older generation, as well as Prussian Junkers and landowners. To them such a process in the medico-judicial world will be unknown, and therefore, they are the more unlikely to accept any such explanation. What is _your_ opinion about it, General?" "Enough, sir!" he thundered with barely restrained fury. "Enough, I say! Once and for all I must endeavour to rid myself of you and your impertinence. To justify yourself in the eyes of the Baron and Baroness will be impossible. Any intercourse with you, even though it be confined to a begging of their pardons, they would look upon as a degradation. I may tell you that, on learning that you formed part of my household, the Baron approached me	me in astonishment. But I do not remember the details very well. Wheeling quietly about, I returned in the direction of Polina Alexandrovna. But, when I had got within a hundred paces of her seat, I saw her rise and set out with the children towards the hotel. At the portico I caught up to her. "I have perpetrated the the piece of idiocy," I said as I came level with her. "Have you? Then you can take the consequences," she replied without so much as looking at me. Then she moved towards the staircase. I spent the rest of the evening walking in the park. Thence I passed into the forest, and walked on until I found myself in a neighbouring principality. At a wayside restaurant I partook of an omelette and some wine, and was charged for the idyllic repast a thaler and a half. Not until eleven o clock did I return home to find a summons awaiting me from the General. Our party occupied two suites in the hotel; each of which contained two rooms. The first (the larger suite) comprised a salon and a smoking-room, with, adjoining the latter, the General s study. It was here that he was awaiting me as he stood posed in a majestic attitude beside his writing-table. Lolling on a divan close by was De Griers. "My good sir," the General began,<\|quote\|>"may I ask you what this is that you have gone and done?"</\|quote\|>"I should be glad," I replied, "if we could come straight to the point. Probably you are referring to my encounter of today with a German?" "With a German? Why, the German was the Baron Burmergelm a most important personage! I hear that you have been rude both to him and to the Baroness?" "No, I have not." "But I understand that you simply terrified them, my good sir?" shouted the General. "Not in the least," I replied. "You must know that when I was in Berlin I frequently used to hear the Berliners repeat, and repellently prolong, a certain phrase namely," Ja wohl! ; "and, happening to meet this couple in the carriage-drive, I found, for some reason or another, that this phrase suddenly recurred to my memory, and exercised a rousing effect upon my spirits. Moreover, on the three previous occasions that I have met the Baroness she has walked towards me as though I were a worm which could easily be crushed with the foot. Not unnaturally, I too possess a measure of self-respect; wherefore, on _this_ occasion I took off my hat, and said politely (yes, I assure you it was said politely):" Madame, j ai l honneur d tre votre esclave. "Then the Baron turned round, and said" Hein! ; "whereupon I felt moved to ejaculate in answer" Ja wohl! "Twice I shouted it at him the first time in an ordinary tone, and the second time with the greatest prolonging of the words of which I was capable. That is all." I must confess that this puerile explanation gave me great pleasure. I felt a strong desire to overlay the incident with an even added measure of grossness; so, the further I proceeded, the more did the gusto of my proceeding increase. "You are only making fun of me!" vociferated the General as, turning to the Frenchman, he declared that my bringing about of the incident had been gratuitous. De Griers smiled contemptuously, and shrugged his shoulders. "Do not think _that_," I put in. "It was not so at all. I grant you that my behaviour was bad I fully confess that it was so, and make no secret of the fact. I would even go so	The Gambler
How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"	No speaker	a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into	we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but	of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like	welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect	rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.	all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something! They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner. "Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him." Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. "Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?" "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months." "Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate." "If your master would marry, you might see more of him." "Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him." Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is	speak openly to her aunt, than to run such a risk. But against this, there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if her private enquiries as to the absence of the family, were unfavourably answered. Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its proprietor, and with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer. A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her alarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go. END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. [Illustration: MATLOCK] PRIDE AND PREJUDICE: A Novel. In Three Volumes. By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility." VOL. III. London: Printed for T. Egerton, Military Library, Whitehall. 1813. [Illustration: DOVE-DALE] PRIDE & PREJUDICE. CHAPTER I. Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter. The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent. Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills;--and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something! They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner. "Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him." Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. "Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?" "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months." "Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate." "If your master would marry, you might see more of him." "Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him." Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so." "I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, "I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old." This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man, had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying, "There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master." "Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the world." Elizabeth almost stared at her.--" "Can this be Mr. Darcy!" thought she. "His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner. "Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just as affable to the poor." Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase. "He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw any thing of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men." "In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth. "This fine account of him,"	her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends."<\|quote\|>How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--"</\|quote\|>"He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild." Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner. "Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him." Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. "Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?" "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months." "Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate." "If your master would marry, you might see more of him." "Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him." Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so." "I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, "I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old." This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man, had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying, "There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a	Pride And Prejudice
"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."	Mrs. Weston	can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond	one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is	one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant	days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at 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	one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at 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	misery. What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!" Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable. While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying, "And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better." "Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at 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	place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper." Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.-- Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: "for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?" "Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world." "My Emma!" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "what is the certainty of caprice?" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending before--" "You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in short, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him." "Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied Isabella: "and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!" Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable. While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying, "And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better." "Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at 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	every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine." "He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it." "One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.<\|quote\|>"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."</\|quote\|>"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at 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	Emma
I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:	No speaker	if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?"	expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of	Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that	Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently. "You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller. "When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know. "You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus----" I wink. "What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again." I consider that out of the question. "We might take a	and more accommodating: "How many of us were there in the class exactly?" We count up: out of twenty, seven are dead, four wounded, one in a mad-house. That makes twelve privates. "Three of them are lieutenants," says Müller. "Do you think they would still let Kantorek sit on them?" We guess not: we wouldn't let ourselves be sat on for that matter. "What do you mean by the three-fold theme in 'William Tell'?" says Kropp reminiscently, and roars with laughter. "What was the purpose of the Poetic League of Göttingen?" asks Müller suddenly and earnestly. "How many children had Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently. "You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller. "When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know. "You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus----" I wink. "What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again." I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam." "That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil." "It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you." Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?" "Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself. Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts	classical phrase. At the same time he ventilates his backside. "I'll have you court-martialled," storms Himmelstoss. We watch him disappear in the direction of the Orderly Room. Haie and Tjaden burst into a regular peat-digger's bellow. Haie laughs so much that he dislocates his jaw, and suddenly stands there helpless with his mouth wide open. Albert has to put it back again by giving it a blow with his fist. Kat is troubled: "If he reports you, it'll be pretty serious." "Do you think he will?" asks Tjaden. "Sure to," I say. "The least you'll get will be five days close arrest," says Kat. That doesn't worry Tjaden. "Five days clink are five days rest." "And if they send you to the Fortress?" urges the thoroughgoing Müller. "Well, for the time being the war will be over so far as I am concerned." Tjaden is a cheerful soul. There aren't any worries for him. He goes off with Haie and Leer so that they won't find him in the first flush of the excitement. * * Müller hasn't finished yet. He tackles Kropp again. "Albert, if you were really at home now, what would you do?" Kropp is contented now and more accommodating: "How many of us were there in the class exactly?" We count up: out of twenty, seven are dead, four wounded, one in a mad-house. That makes twelve privates. "Three of them are lieutenants," says Müller. "Do you think they would still let Kantorek sit on them?" We guess not: we wouldn't let ourselves be sat on for that matter. "What do you mean by the three-fold theme in 'William Tell'?" says Kropp reminiscently, and roars with laughter. "What was the purpose of the Poetic League of Göttingen?" asks Müller suddenly and earnestly. "How many children had Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently. "You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller. "When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know. "You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus----" I wink. "What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again." I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam." "That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil." "It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you." Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?" "Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself. Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts the knife away and continues: "That's just it. Kat and Detering and Haie will go back to their jobs because they had them already. Himmelstoss too. But we never had any. How will we ever get used to one after this, here?" --he makes a gesture toward the front. "We'll want a private income, and then we'll be able to live by ourselves in a wood," I say, but at once feel ashamed of this absurd idea. "But what will really happen when we go back?" wonders Müller, and even he is troubled. Kropp gives a shrug. "I don't know. Let's get back first, then we'll find out." We are all utterly at a loss. "What could we do?" I ask. "I don't want to do anything," replies Kropp wearily. "You'll be dead one day, so what does it matter? I don't think we'll ever go back." "When I think about it, Albert," I say after a while, rolling over on my back, "when I hear the word 'peace time,' it goes to my head; and if it really came, I think I would do some unimaginable thing--something, you know, that it's worth having lain here in the muck for.	his eyes in embarrassment. Himmelstoss is a little hesitant, his gait becomes slower. Then he marches up to us. No one makes any motion to stand up. Kropp looks up at him with interest. He continues to stand in front of us and wait. As no one says anything he launches a "Well?" A couple of seconds go by. Apparently Himmelstoss doesn't quite know what to do. He would like most to set us all on the run again. But he seems to have learned already that the front line isn't a parade ground. He tries it on though, and by addressing himself to one instead of to all of us hopes to get some response. Kropp is nearest, so he favours him. "Well, you here too?" But Albert's no friend of his. "A bit longer than you, I fancy," he retorts. The red moustache twitches: "You don't recognize me any more, what?" Tjaden now opens his eyes. "I do though." Himmelstoss turns to him: "Tjaden, isn't it?" Tjaden lifts his head. "And do you know what you are?" Himmelstoss is disconcerted. "Since when have we become so familiar? I don't remember that we ever slept in the gutter together?" He has no idea what to make of the situation. He didn't expect this open hostility. But he is on his guard: someone has already dinned some rot into him about getting a shot in the back. The question about the gutter makes Tjaden so mad that he becomes almost witty: "No, you slept there by yourself." Himmelstoss begins to boil. But Tjaden gets in ahead of him. He must bring off his insult: "Wouldn't you like to know what you are? A dirty hound, that's what you are. I've been wanting to tell you that for a long time." The satisfaction of months shines in his dull pig's eyes as he spits out: Dirty hound! Himmelstoss lets fly too, now. "What's that, you muck-rake, you dirty peat-stealer? Stand up there, bring your heels together when your superior officer speaks to you." Tjaden winks solemnly. "You take a run and jump at yourself, Himmelstoss." Himmelstoss is a raging book of army regulations. The Kaiser couldn't be more insulted. "Tjaden, I command you, as your superior officer: Stand up!" "Anything else you would like?" asks Tjaden. "Will you obey my order or not?" Tjaden replies, without knowing it, in the well-known classical phrase. At the same time he ventilates his backside. "I'll have you court-martialled," storms Himmelstoss. We watch him disappear in the direction of the Orderly Room. Haie and Tjaden burst into a regular peat-digger's bellow. Haie laughs so much that he dislocates his jaw, and suddenly stands there helpless with his mouth wide open. Albert has to put it back again by giving it a blow with his fist. Kat is troubled: "If he reports you, it'll be pretty serious." "Do you think he will?" asks Tjaden. "Sure to," I say. "The least you'll get will be five days close arrest," says Kat. That doesn't worry Tjaden. "Five days clink are five days rest." "And if they send you to the Fortress?" urges the thoroughgoing Müller. "Well, for the time being the war will be over so far as I am concerned." Tjaden is a cheerful soul. There aren't any worries for him. He goes off with Haie and Leer so that they won't find him in the first flush of the excitement. * * Müller hasn't finished yet. He tackles Kropp again. "Albert, if you were really at home now, what would you do?" Kropp is contented now and more accommodating: "How many of us were there in the class exactly?" We count up: out of twenty, seven are dead, four wounded, one in a mad-house. That makes twelve privates. "Three of them are lieutenants," says Müller. "Do you think they would still let Kantorek sit on them?" We guess not: we wouldn't let ourselves be sat on for that matter. "What do you mean by the three-fold theme in 'William Tell'?" says Kropp reminiscently, and roars with laughter. "What was the purpose of the Poetic League of Göttingen?" asks Müller suddenly and earnestly. "How many children had Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently. "You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller. "When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know. "You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus----" I wink. "What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again." I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam." "That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil." "It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you." Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?" "Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself. Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts the knife away and continues: "That's just it. Kat and Detering and Haie will go back to their jobs because they had them already. Himmelstoss too. But we never had any. How will we ever get used to one after this, here?" --he makes a gesture toward the front. "We'll want a private income, and then we'll be able to live by ourselves in a wood," I say, but at once feel ashamed of this absurd idea. "But what will really happen when we go back?" wonders Müller, and even he is troubled. Kropp gives a shrug. "I don't know. Let's get back first, then we'll find out." We are all utterly at a loss. "What could we do?" I ask. "I don't want to do anything," replies Kropp wearily. "You'll be dead one day, so what does it matter? I don't think we'll ever go back." "When I think about it, Albert," I say after a while, rolling over on my back, "when I hear the word 'peace time,' it goes to my head; and if it really came, I think I would do some unimaginable thing--something, you know, that it's worth having lain here in the muck for. But I can't even imagine anything. All I do know is that this business about professions and studies and salaries and so on--it makes me sick, it is and always was disgusting. I don't see anything--I don't see anything at all, Albert." All at once everything seems to me confused and hopeless. Kropp feels it too. "It will go pretty hard with us all. But nobody at home seems to worry much about it. Two years of shells and bombs--a man won't peel that off as easy as a sock." We agree that it's the same for everyone; not only for us here, but everywhere, for everyone who is of our age; to some more, and to others less. It is the common fate of our generation. Albert expresses it: "The war has ruined us for everything." He is right. We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing. We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces. The first bomb, the first explosion, burst in our hearts. We are cut off from activity, from striving, from progress. We believe in such things no longer, we believe in the war. * * The Orderly Room shows signs of life. Himmelstoss seems to have stirred them up. At the head of the column trots the fat sergeant-major. It is queer that almost all pay-sergeant-majors are fat. Himmelstoss follows him, thirsting for vengeance. His boots gleam in the sun. We get up. "Where's Tjaden?" the sergeant puffs. No one knows, of course. Himmelstoss glowers at us wrathfully. "You know very well. You won't say, that's the fact of the matter. Out with it!" Fatty looks round enquiringly; but Tjaden is not to be seen. He tries another way. "Tjaden will report at the Orderly Room in ten minutes." Then he steams off with Himmelstoss in his wake. "I have a feeling that next time we go up wiring I'll be letting a bundle of wire fall on Himmelstoss's leg," hints Kropp. "We'll have quite a lot of jokes with him," laughs Müller.-- That is our sole ambition: to knock the conceit out of a postman.-- I go into the hut and put Tjaden wise. He disappears. Then we change our possy and lie down again	Tjaden gets in ahead of him. He must bring off his insult: "Wouldn't you like to know what you are? A dirty hound, that's what you are. I've been wanting to tell you that for a long time." The satisfaction of months shines in his dull pig's eyes as he spits out: Dirty hound! Himmelstoss lets fly too, now. "What's that, you muck-rake, you dirty peat-stealer? Stand up there, bring your heels together when your superior officer speaks to you." Tjaden winks solemnly. "You take a run and jump at yourself, Himmelstoss." Himmelstoss is a raging book of army regulations. The Kaiser couldn't be more insulted. "Tjaden, I command you, as your superior officer: Stand up!" "Anything else you would like?" asks Tjaden. "Will you obey my order or not?" Tjaden replies, without knowing it, in the well-known classical phrase. At the same time he ventilates his backside. "I'll have you court-martialled," storms Himmelstoss. We watch him disappear in the direction of the Orderly Room. Haie and Tjaden burst into a regular peat-digger's bellow. Haie laughs so much that he dislocates his jaw, and suddenly stands there helpless with his mouth wide open. Albert has to put it back again by giving it a blow with his fist. Kat is troubled: "If he reports you, it'll be pretty serious." "Do you think he will?" asks Tjaden. "Sure to," I say. "The least you'll get will be five days close arrest," says Kat. That doesn't worry Tjaden. "Five days clink are five days rest." "And if they send you to the Fortress?" urges the thoroughgoing Müller. "Well, for the time being the war will be over so far as I am concerned." Tjaden is a cheerful soul. There aren't any worries for him. He goes off with Haie and Leer so that they won't find him in the first flush of the excitement. * * Müller hasn't finished yet. He tackles Kropp again. "Albert, if you were really at home now, what would you do?" Kropp is contented now and more accommodating: "How many of us were there in the class exactly?" We count up: out of twenty, seven are dead, four wounded, one in a mad-house. That makes twelve privates. "Three of them are lieutenants," says Müller. "Do you think they would still let Kantorek sit on them?" We guess not: we wouldn't let ourselves be sat on for that matter. "What do you mean by the three-fold theme in 'William Tell'?" says Kropp reminiscently, and roars with laughter. "What was the purpose of the Poetic League of Göttingen?" asks Müller suddenly and earnestly. "How many children had Charles the Bald?" I interrupt gently. "You'll never make anything of your life, Bäumer," croaks Müller. "When was the Battle of Zana?" Kropp wants to know. "You lack the studious mind, Kropp, sit down, three minus----" I wink. "What offices did Lycurgus consider the most important for the state?" asks Müller, pretending to take off his pince-nez. "Does it go: 'We Germans fear God and none else in the whole world,' or 'We, the Germans, fear God and----'" I submit. "How many inhabitants has Melbourne?" asks Müller. "How do you expect to succeed in life if you don't know that?"<\|quote\|>I ask Albert hotly. Which he caps with:</\|quote\|>"What is meant by Cohesion?" We remember mighty little of all that rubbish. Anyway, it has never been the slightest use to us. At school nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood--nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn't get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Müller says thoughtfully: "What's the use. We'll have to go back and sit on the forms again." I consider that out of the question. "We might take a special exam." "That needs preparation. And if you do get through, what then? A student's life isn't any better. If you have no money, you have to work like the devil." "It's a bit better. But it's rot all the same, everything they teach you." Kropp supports me: "How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he's once been out here?" "Still you must have an occupation of some sort," insists Müller, as though he were Kantorek himself. Albert cleans his nails with a knife. We are surprised at this delicacy. But it is merely pensiveness. He puts the knife away and continues: "That's just it. Kat and Detering and Haie will go back to their jobs because they had them already. Himmelstoss too. But we never had any. How will we ever get used to one after this, here?" --he makes a gesture toward the front. "We'll want a private income, and then we'll be able to live by ourselves in a wood," I say, but at once feel ashamed of this absurd idea. "But what will really happen when we go back?" wonders Müller, and even he is troubled. Kropp gives a shrug. "I don't know. Let's get back first, then we'll find out." We are all utterly at a loss. "What could we do?" I ask. "I don't want to do anything," replies Kropp wearily. "You'll be dead one day, so what does it matter? I don't think we'll ever go back." "When I think about it, Albert," I say after a while, rolling over on my back, "when I hear the word 'peace time,' it goes to my head; and if it really came, I think I would do some unimaginable thing--something, you know, that it's worth having lain here in the muck for. But I can't even imagine anything. All I do know is that this business about professions and studies and salaries and so on--it makes me sick, it is and always was disgusting. I don't see anything--I don't see anything at all, Albert." All at once everything seems to me confused and hopeless. Kropp feels it too. "It will go pretty hard with us all. But nobody at home seems to worry much about it. Two years of shells and bombs--a man won't peel that off as easy as a sock." We agree that it's the same for everyone; not only for us here, but everywhere, for everyone who is of our age; to some more, and to others less. It is the common fate of our generation. Albert expresses it: "The war has ruined us for everything." He is right. We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing. We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to	All Quiet on the Western Front