Thus while the latter was being pecked _ad libitum_ by the campaigner, Lizzie generally "made herself scarce," and went up to The Poplars to talk about Tom--the never wearisome subject--with the old dowager. The campaigner's rule might be rigid enough, but Lizzie laughed it to scorn. Instead of bandying words with the veteran, our little friend abandoned the field to her completely, and left her "alone in her glory." She was unhappy no longer. There was balm in Gilead. Jupiter _tonans_ was propitious: the doctor's plans successful: the dowager gained over to Lizzie's cause: the field fought: the battle won. Who would have thought of the "Fiddle-de-dee"-asserting-dowager ever being in Lizzie's favour? The course of true love looked, for a wonder, as if it were going for once to run smooth. Miracles certainly will never cease: this is the age of them! Volume 3, Chapter XII. "TOO LATE! TOO LATE!" Markworth still sat in the same position in the untidy, ill-furnished private room at the sponging-house after the governess, his enemy, had left him--with his face hidden between his hands and his head bent down, the summer sun still streaming down on him, for the sun shines for rich and poor alike: for those in captivity, and for those that are free! Clara Kingscott, meanwhile, directed her steps once more to the offices of Mr Trump and his partner, in Bedford Row. She did not dread a refusal this time: she did not hold back for fear of being denied admission: she had news--news! to communicate now, and they must see her! "Mr Trump was out," said one of the clerks. Miss Kingscott was in no hurry--although she was out of breath with the haste she had made from the hotel _restante_ of Abednego--she "would wait until Mr Trump came in." That would never do, thought the clerk; his master wouldn't be pleased to find his _bete noir_ seated there in his outer office, ready to pounce upon him when he made his appearance. So fearful of a probable blowing up, the embryo Sheepskin tried again. "Mr Trump was busy; he could not see anyone to-day." Miss Kingscott, however, was invincible--"she would wait until the lawyer was disengaged," she said, calmly taking a seat unbidden. Worse and worse for Sheepskin, who was in an agony of terror as to what to do. In the midst of the excitement enters Mr Trump himself from his inner sanctum, accompanied by Doctor Jolly. "Bless my soul, Miss Kingscott!" exclaimed the latter; "who would have thought of seeing you here." But the doctor seemed embarrassed; he did not offer his broad palm to the governess as he would have done in the old days at The Poplars; and his ruddy countenance was suffused with a deeper shade of crimson than was really habitual. Mr Trump advanced, however, to Miss Kingscott, and spoke out curtly in his cold, business voice.