The summer and the autumn passed.  Christmas and the New Year were at hand.

As executors honestly bent on performing their duty towards the dead, Vendale and Bintrey had held more than one anxious consultation on the subject of Wilding’s will.  The lawyer had declared, from the first, that it was simply impossible to take any useful action in the matter at all.  The only obvious inquiries to make, in relation to the lost man, had been made already by Wilding himself; with this result, that time and death together had not left a trace of him discoverable.  To advertise for the claimant to the property, it would be necessary to mention particulars—a course of proceeding which would invite half the impostors in England to present themselves in the character of the true Walter Wilding.  “If we find a chance of tracing the lost man, we will take it.  If we don’t, let us meet for another consultation on the first anniversary of Wilding’s death.”  So Bintrey advised.  And so, with the most earnest desire to fulfil his dead friend’s wishes, Vendale was fain to let the matter rest for the present.

Turning from his interest in the past to his interest in the future, Vendale still found himself confronting a doubtful prospect.  Months on months had passed since his first visit to Soho Square—and through all that time, the one language in which he had told Marguerite that he loved her was the language of the eyes, assisted, at convenient opportunities, by the language of the hand.

What was the obstacle in his way?  The one immovable obstacle which had been in his way from the first.  No matter how fairly the opportunities looked, Vendale’s efforts to speak with Marguerite alone ended invariably in one and the same result.  Under the most accidental circumstances, in the most innocent manner possible, Obenreizer was always in the way.

With the last days of the old year came an unexpected chance of spending an evening with Marguerite, which Vendale resolved should be a chance of speaking privately to her as well.  A cordial note from Obenreizer invited him, on New Year’s Day, to a little family dinner in Soho Square.  “We shall be only four,” the note said.  “We shall be only two,” Vendale determined, “before the evening is out!”

New Year’s Day, among the English, is associated with the giving and receiving of dinners, and with nothing more.  New Year’s Day, among the foreigners, is the grand opportunity of the year for the giving and receiving of presents.  It is occasionally possible to acclimatise a foreign custom.  In this instance Vendale felt no hesitation about making the attempt.  His one difficulty was to decide what his New Year’s gift to Marguerite should be.  The defensive pride of the peasant’s daughter—morbidly sensitive to the inequality between her social position and his—would be secretly roused against him if he ventured on a rich offering.  A gift, which a poor man’s purse might purchase, was the one gift that could be trusted to find its way to her heart, for the giver’s sake.  Stoutly resisting temptation, in the form of diamonds and rubies, Vendale bought a brooch of the filagree-work of Genoa—the simplest and most unpretending ornament that he could find in the jeweller’s shop.

He slipped his gift into Marguerite’s hand as she held it out to welcome him on the day of the dinner.

“This is your first New Year’s Day in England,” he said.  “Will you let me help to make it like a New Year’s Day at home?”

She thanked him, a little constrainedly, as she looked at the jeweller’s box, uncertain what it might contain.  Opening the box, and discovering the studiously simple form under which Vendale’s little keepsake offered itself to her, she penetrated his motive on the spot.  Her face turned on him brightly, with a look which said, “I own you have pleased and flattered me.”  Never had she been so charming, in Vendale’s eyes, as she was at that moment.  Her winter dress—a petticoat of dark silk, with a bodice of black velvet rising to her neck, and enclosing it softly in a little circle of swansdown—heightened, by all the force of contrast, the dazzling fairness of her hair and her complexion.  It was only when she turned aside from him to the glass, and, taking out the brooch that she wore, put his New Year’s gift in its place, that Vendale’s attention wandered far enough away from her to discover the presence of other persons in the room.  He now became conscious that the hands of Obenreizer were affectionately in possession of his elbows.  He now heard the voice of Obenreizer thanking him for his attention to Marguerite, with the faintest possible ring of mockery in its tone.  (“Such a simple present, dear sir! and showing such nice tact!”)  He now discovered, for the first time, that there was one other guest, and but one, besides himself, whom Obenreizer presented as a compatriot and friend.  The friend’s face was mouldy, and the friend’s figure was fat.  His age was suggestive of the autumnal period of human life.  In the course of the evening he developed two extraordinary capacities.  One was a capacity for silence; the other was a capacity for emptying bottles.

Madame Dor was not in the room.  Neither was there any visible place reserved for her when they sat down to table.  Obenreizer explained that it was “the good Dor’s simple habit to dine always in the middle of the day.  She would make her excuses later in the evening.”  Vendale wondered whether the good Dor had, on this occasion, varied her domestic employment from cleaning Obenreizer’s gloves to cooking Obenreizer’s dinner.  This at least was certain—the dishes served were, one and all, as achievements in cookery, high above the reach of the rude elementary art of England.  The dinner was unobtrusively perfect.  As for the wine, the eyes of the speechless friend rolled over it, as in solemn ecstasy.  Sometimes he said “Good!” when a bottle came in full; and sometimes he said “Ah!” when a bottle went out empty—and there his contributions to the gaiety of the evening ended.

Silence is occasionally infectious.  Oppressed by private anxieties of their own, Marguerite and Vendale appeared to feel the influence of the speechless friend.  The whole responsibility of keeping the talk going rested on Obenreizer’s shoulders, and manfully did Obenreizer sustain it.  He opened his heart in the character of an enlightened foreigner, and sang the praises of England.  When other topics ran dry, he returned to this inexhaustible source, and always set the stream running again as copiously as ever.  Obenreizer would have given an arm, an eye, or a leg to have been born an Englishman.  Out of England there was no such institution as a home, no such thing as a fireside, no such object as a beautiful woman.  His dear Miss Marguerite would excuse him, if he accounted for her attractions on the theory that English blood must have mixed at some former time with their obscure and unknown ancestry.  Survey this English nation, and behold a tall, clean, plump, and solid people!  Look at their cities!  What magnificence in their public buildings!  What admirable order and propriety in their streets!  Admire their laws, combining the eternal principle of justice with the other eternal principle of pounds, shillings, and pence; and applying the product to all civil injuries, from an injury to a man’s honour, to an injury to a man’s nose!  You have ruined my daughter—pounds, shillings, and pence!  You have knocked me down with a blow in my face—pounds, shillings, and pence!  Where was the material prosperity of such a country as that to stop?  Obenreizer, projecting himself into the future, failed to see the end of it.  Obenreizer’s enthusiasm entreated permission to exhale itself, English fashion, in a toast.  Here is our modest little dinner over, here is our frugal dessert on the table, and here is the admirer of England conforming to national customs, and making a speech!  A toast to your white cliffs of Albion, Mr. Vendale! to your national virtues, your charming climate, and your fascinating women! to your Hearths, to your Homes, to your Habeas Corpus, and to all your other institutions!  In one word—to England!  Heep-heep-heep! hooray!

Obenreizer’s voice had barely chanted the last note of the English cheer, the speechless friend had barely drained the last drop out of his glass, when the festive proceedings were interrupted by a modest tap at the door.  A woman-servant came in, and approached her master with a little note in her hand.  Obenreizer opened the note with a frown; and, after reading it with an expression of genuine annoyance, passed it on to his compatriot and friend.  Vendale’s spirits rose as he watched these proceedings.  Had he found an ally in the annoying little note?  Was the long-looked-for chance actually coming at last?

“I am afraid there is no help for it?” said Obenreizer, addressing his fellow-countryman.  “I am afraid we must go.”

The speechless friend handed back the letter, shrugged his heavy shoulders, and poured himself out a last glass of wine.  His fat fingers lingered fondly round the neck of the bottle.  They pressed it with a little amatory squeeze at parting.  His globular eyes looked dimly, as through an intervening haze, at Vendale and Marguerite.  His heavy articulation laboured, and brought forth a whole sentence at a birth.  “I think,” he said, “I should have liked a little more wine.”  His breath failed him after that effort; he gasped, and walked to the door.

Obenreizer addressed himself to Vendale with an appearance of the deepest distress.

“I am so shocked, so confused, so distressed,” he began.  “A misfortune has happened to one of my compatriots.  He is alone, he is ignorant of your language—I and my good friend, here, have no choice but to go and help him.  What can I say in my excuse?  How can I describe my affliction at depriving myself in this way of the honour of your company?”

He paused, evidently expecting to see Vendale take up his hat and retire.  Discerning his opportunity at last, Vendale determined to do nothing of the kind.  He met Obenreizer dexterously, with Obenreizer’s own weapons.

“Pray don’t distress yourself,” he said.  “I’ll wait here with the greatest pleasure till you come back.”

Marguerite blushed deeply, and turned away to her embroidery-frame in a corner by the window.  The film showed itself in Obenreizer’s eyes, and the smile came something sourly to Obenreizer’s lips.  To have told Vendale that there was no reasonable prospect of his coming back in good time, would have been to risk offending a man whose favourable opinion was of solid commercial importance to him.  Accepting his defeat with the best possible grace, he declared himself to be equally honoured and delighted by Vendale’s proposal.  “So frank, so friendly, so English!”  He bustled about, apparently looking for something he wanted, disappeared for a moment through the folding-doors communicating with the next room, came back with his hat and coat, and protesting that he would return at the earliest possible moment, embraced Vendale’s elbows, and vanished from the scene in company with the speechless friend.

Vendale turned to the corner by the window, in which Marguerite had placed herself with her work.  There, as if she had dropped from the ceiling, or come up through the floor—there, in the old attitude, with her face to the stove—sat an Obstacle that had not been foreseen, in the person of Madame Dor!  She half got up, half looked over her broad shoulder at Vendale, and plumped down again.  Was she at work?  Yes.  Cleaning Obenreizer’s gloves, as before?  No; darning Obenreizer’s stockings.

The case was now desperate.  Two serious considerations presented themselves to Vendale.  Was it possible to put Madame Dor into the stove?  The stove wouldn’t hold her.  Was it possible to treat Madame Dor, not as a living woman, but as an article of furniture?  Could the mind be brought to contemplate this respectable matron purely in the light of a chest of drawers, with a black gauze held-dress accidentally left on the top of it?  Yes, the mind could be brought to do that.  With a comparatively trifling effort, Vendale’s mind did it.  As he took his place on the old-fashioned window-seat, close by Marguerite and her embroidery, a slight movement appeared in the chest of drawers, but no remark issued from it.  Let it be remembered that solid furniture is not easy to move, and that it has this advantage in consequence—there is no fear of upsetting it.

Unusually silent and unusually constrained—with the bright colour fast fading from her face, with a feverish energy possessing her fingers—the pretty Marguerite bent over her embroidery, and worked as if her life depended on it.  Hardly less agitated himself, Vendale felt the importance of leading her very gently to the avowal which he was eager to make—to the other sweeter avowal still, which he was longing to hear.  A woman’s love is never to be taken by storm; it yields insensibly to a system of gradual approach.  It ventures by the roundabout way, and listens to the low voice.  Vendale led her memory back to their past meetings when they were travelling together in Switzerland.  They revived the impressions, they recalled the events, of the happy bygone time.  Little by little, Marguerite’s constraint vanished.  She smiled, she was interested, she looked at Vendale, she grew idle with her needle, she made false stitches in her work.  Their voices sank lower and lower; their faces bent nearer and nearer to each other as they spoke.  And Madame Dor?  Madame Dor behaved like an angel.  She never looked round; she never said a word; she went on with Obenreizer’s stockings.  Pulling each stocking up tight over her left arm, and holding that arm aloft from time to time, to catch the light on her work, there were moments—delicate and indescribable moments—when Madame Dor appeared to be sitting upside down, and contemplating one of her own respectable legs, elevated in the air.  As the minutes wore on, these elevations followed each other at longer and longer intervals.  Now and again, the black gauze head-dress nodded, dropped forward, recovered itself.  A little heap of stockings slid softly from Madame Dor’s lap, and remained unnoticed on the floor.  A prodigious ball of worsted followed the stockings, and rolled lazily under the table.  The black gauze head-dress nodded, dropped forward, recovered itself, nodded again, dropped forward again, and recovered itself no more.  A composite sound, partly as of the purring of an immense cat, partly as of the planing of a soft board, rose over the hushed voices of the lovers, and hummed at regular intervals through the room.  Nature and Madame Dor had combined together in Vendale’s interests.  The best of women was asleep.

Marguerite rose to stop—not the snoring—let us say, the audible repose of Madame Dor.  Vendale laid his hand on her arm, and pressed her back gently into her chair.

“Don’t disturb her,” he whispered.  “I have been waiting to tell you a secret.  Let me tell it now.”

Marguerite resumed her seat.  She tried to resume her needle.  It was useless; her eyes failed her; her hand failed her; she could find nothing.

“We have been talking,” said Vendale, “of the happy time when we first met, and first travelled together.  I have a confession to make.  I have been concealing something.  When we spoke of my first visit to Switzerland, I told you of all the impressions I had brought back with me to England—except one.  Can you guess what that one is?”

Her eyes looked stedfastly at the embroidery, and her face turned a little away from him.  Signs of disturbance began to appear in her neat velvet bodice, round the region of the brooch.  She made no reply.  Vendale pressed the question without mercy.

“Can you guess what the one Swiss impression is which I have not told you yet?”

Her face turned back towards him, and a faint smile trembled on her lips.

“An impression of the mountains, perhaps?” she said slyly.

“No; a much more precious impression than that.”

“Of the lakes?”

“No.  The lakes have not grown dearer and dearer in remembrance to me every day.  The lakes are not associated with my happiness in the present, and my hopes in the future.  Marguerite! all that makes life worth having hangs, for me, on a word from your lips.  Marguerite!  I love you!”

Her head drooped as he took her hand.  He drew her to him, and looked at her.  The tears escaped from her downcast eyes, and fell slowly over her cheeks.

“O, Mr. Vendale,” she said sadly, “it would have been kinder to have kept your secret.  Have you forgotten the distance between us?  It can never, never be!”

“There can be but one distance between us, Marguerite—a distance of your making.  My love, my darling, there is no higher rank in goodness, there is no higher rank in beauty, than yours!  Come! whisper the one little word which tells me you will be my wife!”

She sighed bitterly.  “Think of your family,” she murmured; “and think of mine!”

Vendale drew her a little nearer to him.

“If you dwell on such an obstacle as that,” he said, “I shall think but one thought—I shall think I have offended you.”

She started, and looked up.  “O, no!” she exclaimed innocently.  The instant the words passed her lips, she saw the construction that might be placed on them.  Her confession had escaped her in spite of herself.  A lovely flush of colour overspread her face.  She made a momentary effort to disengage herself from her lover’s embrace.  She looked up at him entreatingly.  She tried to speak.  The words died on her lips in the kiss that Vendale pressed on them.  “Let me go, Mr. Vendale!” she said faintly.

“Call me George.”

She laid her head on his bosom.  All her heart went out to him at last.  “George!” she whispered.

“Say you love me!”

Her arms twined themselves gently round his neck.  Her lips, timidly touching his cheek, murmured the delicious words—“I love you!”

In the moment of silence that followed, the sound of the opening and closing of the house-door came clear to them through the wintry stillness of the street.

Marguerite started to her feet.

“Let me go!” she said.  “He has come back!”

She hurried from the room, and touched Madame Dor’s shoulder in passing.  Madame Dor woke up with a loud snort, looked first over one shoulder and then over the other, peered down into her lap, and discovered neither stockings, worsted, nor darning-needle in it.  At the same moment, footsteps became audible ascending the stairs.  “Mon Dieu!” said Madame Dor, addressing herself to the stove, and trembling violently.  Vendale picked up the stockings and the ball, and huddled them all back in a heap over her shoulder.  “Mon Dieu!” said Madame Dor, for the second time, as the avalanche of worsted poured into her capacious lap.

The door opened, and Obenreizer came in.  His first glance round the room showed him that Marguerite was absent.

“What!” he exclaimed, “my niece is away?  My niece is not here to entertain you in my absence?  This is unpardonable.  I shall bring her back instantly.”

Vendale stopped him.

“I beg you will not disturb Miss Obenreizer,” he said.  “You have returned, I see, without your friend?”

“My friend remains, and consoles our afflicted compatriot.  A heart-rending scene, Mr. Vendale!  The household gods at the pawnbroker’s—the family immersed in tears.  We all embraced in silence.  My admirable friend alone possessed his composure.  He sent out, on the spot, for a bottle of wine.”

“Can I say a word to you in private, Mr. Obenreizer?”

“Assuredly.”  He turned to Madame Dor.  “My good creature, you are sinking for want of repose.  Mr. Vendale will excuse you.”

Madame Dor rose, and set forth sideways on her journey from the stove to bed.  She dropped a stocking.  Vendale picked it up for her, and opened one of the folding-doors.  She advanced a step, and dropped three more stockings.  Vendale stooping to recover them as before, Obenreizer interfered with profuse apologies, and with a warning look at Madame Dor.  Madame Dor acknowledged the look by dropping the whole of the stockings in a heap, and then shuffling away panic-stricken from the scene of disaster.  Obenreizer swept up the complete collection fiercely in both hands.  “Go!” he cried, giving his prodigious handful a preparatory swing in the air.  Madame Dor said, “Mon Dieu,” and vanished into the next room, pursued by a shower of stockings.

“What must you think, Mr. Vendale,” said Obenreizer, closing the door, “of this deplorable intrusion of domestic details?  For myself, I blush at it.  We are beginning the New Year as badly as possible; everything has gone wrong to-night.  Be seated, pray—and say, what may I offer you?  Shall we pay our best respects to another of your noble English institutions?  It is my study to be, what you call, jolly.  I propose a grog.”

Vendale declined the grog with all needful respect for that noble institution.

“I wish to speak to you on a subject in which I am deeply interested,” he said.  “You must have observed, Mr. Obenreizer, that I have, from the first, felt no ordinary admiration for your charming niece?”

“You are very good.  In my niece’s name, I thank you.”

“Perhaps you may have noticed, latterly, that my admiration for Miss Obenreizer has grown into a tenderer and deeper feeling—?”

“Shall we say friendship, Mr. Vendale?”

“Say love—and we shall be nearer to the truth.”

Obenreizer started out of his chair.  The faintly discernible beat, which was his nearest approach to a change of colour, showed itself suddenly in his cheeks.

“You are Miss Obenreizer’s guardian,” pursued Vendale.  “I ask you to confer upon me the greatest of all favours—I ask you to give me her hand in marriage.”

Obenreizer dropped back into his chair.  “Mr. Vendale,” he said, “you petrify me.”

“I will wait,” rejoined Vendale, “until you have recovered yourself.”

“One word before I recover myself.  You have said nothing about this to my niece?”

“I have opened my whole heart to your niece.  And I have reason to hope—”

“What!” interposed Obenreizer.  “You have made a proposal to my niece, without first asking for my authority to pay your addresses to her?”  He struck his hand on the table, and lost his hold over himself for the first time in Vendale’s experience of him.  “Sir!” he exclaimed, indignantly, “what sort of conduct is this?  As a man of honour, speaking to a man of honour, how can you justify it?”

“I can only justify it as one of our English institutions,” said Vendale quietly.  “You admire our English institutions.  I can’t honestly tell you, Mr. Obenreizer, that I regret what I have done.  I can only assure you that I have not acted in the matter with any intentional disrespect towards yourself.  This said, may I ask you to tell me plainly what objection you see to favouring my suit?”

“I see this immense objection,” answered Obenreizer, “that my niece and you are not on a social equality together.  My niece is the daughter of a poor peasant; and you are the son of a gentleman.  You do us an honour,” he added, lowering himself again gradually to his customary polite level, “which deserves, and has, our most grateful acknowledgments.  But the inequality is too glaring; the sacrifice is too great.  You English are a proud people, Mr. Vendale.  I have observed enough of this country to see that such a marriage as you propose would be a scandal here.  Not a hand would be held out to your peasant-wife; and all your best friends would desert you.”

“One moment,” said Vendale, interposing on his side.  “I may claim, without any great arrogance, to know more of my country people in general, and of my own friends in particular, than you do.  In the estimation of everybody whose opinion is worth having, my wife herself would be the one sufficient justification of my marriage.  If I did not feel certain—observe, I say certain—that I am offering her a position which she can accept without so much as the shadow of a humiliation—I would never (cost me what it might) have asked her to be my wife.  Is there any other obstacle that you see?  Have you any personal objection to me?”

Obenreizer spread out both his hands in courteous protest.  “Personal objection!” he exclaimed.  “Dear sir, the bare question is painful to me.”

“We are both men of business,” pursued Vendale, “and you naturally expect me to satisfy you that I have the means of supporting a wife.  I can explain my pecuniary position in two words.  I inherit from my parents a fortune of twenty thousand pounds.  In half of that sum I have only a life-interest, to which, if I die, leaving a widow, my widow succeeds.  If I die, leaving children, the money itself is divided among them, as they come of age.  The other half of my fortune is at my own disposal, and is invested in the wine-business.  I see my way to greatly improving that business.  As it stands at present, I cannot state my return from my capital embarked at more than twelve hundred a year.  Add the yearly value of my life-interest—and the total reaches a present annual income of fifteen hundred pounds.  I have the fairest prospect of soon making it more.  In the meantime, do you object to me on pecuniary grounds?”

Driven back to his last entrenchment, Obenreizer rose, and took a turn backwards and forwards in the room.  For the moment, he was plainly at a loss what to say or do next.

“Before I answer that last question,” he said, after a little close consideration with himself, “I beg leave to revert for a moment to Miss Marguerite.  You said something just now which seemed to imply that she returns the sentiment with which you are pleased to regard her?”

“I have the inestimable happiness,” said Vendale, “of knowing that she loves me.”

Obenreizer stood silent for a moment, with the film over his eyes, and the faintly perceptible beat becoming visible again in his cheeks.

“If you will excuse me for a few minutes,” he said, with ceremonious politeness, “I should like to have the opportunity of speaking to my niece.”  With those words, he bowed, and quitted the room.

Left by himself, Vendale’s thoughts (as a necessary result of the interview, thus far) turned instinctively to the consideration of Obenreizer’s motives.  He had put obstacles in the way of the courtship; he was now putting obstacles in the way of the marriage—a marriage offering advantages which even his ingenuity could not dispute.  On the face of it, his conduct was incomprehensible.  What did it mean?

Seeking, under the surface, for the answer to that question—and remembering that Obenreizer was a man of about his own age; also, that Marguerite was, strictly speaking, his half-niece only—Vendale asked himself, with a lover’s ready jealousy, whether he had a rival to fear, as well as a guardian to conciliate.  The thought just crossed his mind, and no more.  The sense of Marguerite’s kiss still lingering on his cheek reminded him gently that even the jealousy of a moment was now a treason to her.

On reflection, it seemed most likely that a personal motive of another kind might suggest the true explanation of Obenreizer’s conduct.  Marguerite’s grace and beauty were precious ornaments in that little household.  They gave it a special social attraction and a special social importance.  They armed Obenreizer with a certain influence in reserve, which he could always depend upon to make his house attractive, and which he might always bring more or less to bear on the forwarding of his own private ends.  Was he the sort of man to resign such advantages as were here implied, without obtaining the fullest possible compensation for the loss?  A connection by marriage with Vendale offered him solid advantages, beyond all doubt.  But there were hundreds of men in London with far greater power and far wider influence than Vendale possessed.  Was it possible that this man’s ambition secretly looked higher than the highest prospects that could be offered to him by the alliance now proposed for his niece?  As the question passed through Vendale’s mind, the man himself reappeared—to answer it, or not to answer it, as the event might prove.

A marked change was visible in Obenreizer when he resumed his place.  His manner was less assured, and there were plain traces about his mouth of recent agitation which had not been successfully composed.  Had he said something, referring either to Vendale or to himself, which had raised Marguerite’s spirit, and which had placed him, for the first time, face to face with a resolute assertion of his niece’s will?  It might or might not be.  This only was certain—he looked like a man who had met with a repulse.

“I have spoken to my niece,” he began.  “I find, Mr. Vendale, that even your influence has not entirely blinded her to the social objections to your proposal.”

“May I ask,” returned Vendale, “if that is the only result of your interview with Miss Obenreizer?”

A momentary flash leapt out through the Obenreizer film.

“You are master of the situation,” he answered, in a tone of sardonic submission.  “If you insist on my admitting it, I do admit it in those words.  My niece’s will and mine used to be one, Mr. Vendale.  You have come between us, and her will is now yours.  In my country, we know when we are beaten, and we submit with our best grace.  I submit, with my best grace, on certain conditions.  Let us revert to the statement of your pecuniary position.  I have an objection to you, my dear sir—a most amazing, a most audacious objection, from a man in my position to a man in yours.”

“What is it?”

“You have honoured me by making a proposal for my niece’s hand.  For the present (with best thanks and respects), I beg to decline it.”

“Why?”

“Because you are not rich enough.”

The objection, as the speaker had foreseen, took Vendale completely by surprise.  For the moment he was speechless.

“Your income is fifteen hundred a year,” pursued Obenreizer.  “In my miserable country I should fall on my knees before your income, and say, ‘What a princely fortune!’  In wealthy England, I sit as I am, and say, ‘A modest independence, dear sir; nothing more.  Enough, perhaps, for a wife in your own rank of life who has no social prejudices to conquer.  Not more than half enough for a wife who is a meanly born foreigner, and who has all your social prejudices against her.’  Sir! if my niece is ever to marry you, she will have what you call uphill work of it in taking her place at starting.  Yes, yes; this is not your view, but it remains, immovably remains, my view for all that.  For my niece’s sake, I claim that this uphill work shall be made as smooth as possible.  Whatever material advantages she can have to help her, ought, in common justice, to be hers.  Now, tell me, Mr. Vendale, on your fifteen hundred a year can your wife have a house in a fashionable quarter, a footman to open her door, a butler to wait at her table, and a carriage and horses to drive about in?  I see the answer in your face—your face says, No.  Very good.  Tell me one more thing, and I have done.  Take the mass of your educated, accomplished, and lovely country-women, is it, or is it not, the fact that a lady who has a house in a fashionable quarter, a footman to open her door, a butler to wait at her table, and a carriage and horses to drive about in, is a lady who has gained four steps, in female estimation, at starting?  Yes? or No?”

“Come to the point,” said Vendale.  “You view this question as a question of terms.  What are your terms?”

“The lowest terms, dear sir, on which you can provide your wife with those four steps at starting.  Double your present income—the most rigid economy cannot do it in England on less.  You said just now that you expected greatly to increase the value of your business.  To work—and increase it!  I am a good devil after all!  On the day when you satisfy me, by plain proofs, that your income has risen to three thousand a year, ask me for my niece’s hand, and it is yours.”

“May I inquire if you have mentioned this arrangement to Miss Obenreizer?”

“Certainly.  She has a last little morsel of regard still left for me, Mr. Vendale, which is not yours yet; and she accepts my terms.  In other words, she submits to be guided by her guardian’s regard for her welfare, and by her guardian’s superior knowledge of the world.”  He threw himself back in his chair, in firm reliance on his position, and in full possession of his excellent temper.

Any open assertion of his own interests, in the situation in which Vendale was now placed, seemed to be (for the present at least) hopeless.  He found himself literally left with no ground to stand on.  Whether Obenreizer’s objections were the genuine product of Obenreizer’s own view of the case, or whether he was simply delaying the marriage in the hope of ultimately breaking it off altogether—in either of these events, any present resistance on Vendale’s part would be equally useless.  There was no help for it but to yield, making the best terms that he could on his own side.

“I protest against the conditions you impose on me,” he began.

“Naturally,” said Obenreizer; “I dare say I should protest, myself, in your place.”

“Say, however,” pursued Vendale, “that I accept your terms.  In that case, I must be permitted to make two stipulations on my part.  In the first place, I shall expect to be allowed to see your niece.”

“Aha! to see my niece? and to make her in as great a hurry to be married as you are yourself?  Suppose I say, No? you would see her perhaps without my permission?”

“Decidedly!”

“How delightfully frank!  How exquisitely English!  You shall see her, Mr. Vendale, on certain days, which we will appoint together.  What next?”

“Your objection to my income,” proceeded Vendale, “has taken me completely by surprise.  I wish to be assured against any repetition of that surprise.  Your present views of my qualification for marriage require me to have an income of three thousand a year.  Can I be certain, in the future, as your experience of England enlarges, that your estimate will rise no higher?”

“In plain English,” said Obenreizer, “you doubt my word?”

“Do you purpose to take my word for it when I inform you that I have doubled my income?” asked Vendale.  “If my memory does not deceive me, you stipulated, a minute since, for plain proofs?”

“Well played, Mr. Vendale!  You combine the foreign quickness with the English solidity.  Accept my best congratulations.  Accept, also, my written guarantee.”

He rose; seated himself at a writing-desk at a side-table, wrote a few lines, and presented them to Vendale with a low bow.  The engagement was perfectly explicit, and was signed and dated with scrupulous care.

“Are you satisfied with your guarantee?”

“I am satisfied.”

“Charmed to hear it, I am sure.  We have had our little skirmish—we have really been wonderfully clever on both sides.  For the present our affairs are settled.  I bear no malice.  You bear no malice.  Come, Mr. Vendale, a good English shake hands.”

Vendale gave his hand, a little bewildered by Obenreizer’s sudden transitions from one humour to another.

“When may I expect to see Miss Obenreizer again?” he asked, as he rose to go.

“Honour me with a visit to-morrow,” said Obenreizer, “and we will settle it then.  Do have a grog before you go!  No?  Well! well! we will reserve the grog till you have your three thousand a year, and are ready to be married.  Aha!  When will that be?”

“I made an estimate, some months since, of the capacities of my business,” said Vendale.  “If that estimate is correct, I shall double my present income—”

“And be married!” added Obenreizer.

“And be married,” repeated Vendale, “within a year from this time.  Good-night.”