“Probably, I never thought of that. However, it’s you will have to pay the piper, not I.” “You’re an artist in conferring favours—” “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, stow that!” “I wouldn’t take your offer, by Jove! I wouldn’t, but that I mean to repay you.” “But I’ve already taken good care of that!” “The money isn’t everything,” said Brydon impatiently, “there is such a thing as being proud of a fellow you’ve made, of valuing your own creation—” “All that comes in the contract, the sense of moral elevation it gives one to run a successful concern, even if it’s only an artist, pleases the carnal mind. There was only the choice between you and a patent medicine, I’d have gone for that but that I heard at the last moment that peppermint was the active principle in its manufacture—I draw the line at peppermint—and you were the only alternative. And look here, old man—But, good Lord! See that child there? Which is more human, the child’s face or the monkey’s on the organ? Upon my word, the imp scores off the beast only in the matter of cheek pouch. Gru! how it hangs!” Brydon shuddered. “You always see the beastliest details! Couldn’t you keep them to yourself! I shall dream of that child for a week.” “And yet you devour Zola? I had begun something, what was it? Oh,—if I were you I should walk gingerly as soon as you strike Paris pavement; there is something in it that drives fellows mad. London is a fool to it! It’s a bad investment for any man, but it would spoil your work for a twelvemonth, if it didn’t give me my premium sooner than I want it. That weak heart of yours, Charlie, if you work the thing properly, should be as good as a family chaplain to you, and it isn’t every man that can boast of as much.” “Talk of utilitarianism,” sighed Brydon, “it is to be a struggle, then, between my natural instincts and my game heart. I wonder which will win?” CHAPTER XXII. WHEN Gwen was dressing for her wedding, it never somehow struck her mother to go to her room, and Gwen had herself given an absolute command that no one should ask her to do so. She made no remark at all on the subject when she did not come, but she insisted on going to the church in the carriage with Mrs. Fellowes. It was useless to oppose her, she was like adamant on this point, which set Dacre swearing like mad. She was white and silent as they drove off. Mrs. Fellowes was silent too, and rather whiter, but she daren’t show any feeling; they were on the brink of a general upheaval, and her whole energy must be concentrated to ward it off. Gwen felt her situation with such cruel intensity, that even to herself she had to pretend to a total stony indifference, but when they got to the gates she sighed and stirred softly and put out her hand with unaccustomed wistfulness and laid it on Mrs. Fellowes. It was cold and stiff. Mrs. Fellowes rubbed it gently between hers and laid it lovingly against her cheek, and kept in her tears, she dared not speak.