"Oh, but I must tell you, Clara: it’s right for you to know; one of the leading principles of political economy--" "Don’t talk to me of that stuff." "Well, I won’t; because I see that you don’t understand it. But he actually called him--and his voice came from a depth, like an Artesian well--he called our darling Conny--" "What?" And in my passion, I flung off her hand, and stood up. "A low bastard, a renegade hound, a scandal to his country--and then he even said Rimbecco." She pronounced the last word almost with a scream, as an insult beyond forgiveness. What it meant I did not ask, I had heard enough already. "I must leave this house. Where is your brother Conrad?" "Gone, I believe, to inquire for you. Nothing but that composes him. I wish he would never come here. And he was ordered not to. But it is about some business. Oh, he never will come again." And she began to cry at the thought of the very thing she had wished for. "Neither will I come again. Where is your father now?" "Up at his lumbering cabinet, where he always consoles himself, whenever he is put out. But if you are going, dear child, do let me come with you. I shall cry till I die here, all by myself: and Pappy never cares about me, when he is in his black dudgeon." In a few minutes we left the rude unpleasant house, and even Judy seemed relieved to get away from the door. By the time we reached Mrs. Shelfer’s, Idols was in capital spirits again, and pressed me for some account of the wonderful wealth, and the grand house she had heard of. No doubt this rumour had found its way through Ann Maples. "And the great Lord--what’s his name, dear Donna? I wouldn’t believe a word of it; though I’m sure you are a deal too good for all the house of peers. But Conny did; and wasn’t he in a way? But he ought to be very glad you know--wish you every blessing, as they say in the plays; and a peer is the very highest blessing to an Englishwoman. But one thing I am quite resolved on: Judy belongs to me now, don’t you, lovely Judy?" "No," said the judicious, "I belong to Clara." "Though Conny pretends, since he was left at your place, that he belongs to him. Now I will give him to you; and so will Conny too. You can afford to keep him now, and I can’t, he does eat such a lot; and he does not care a pin for me, but he loves you with all his heart." "How do you know he does?" I was not attending much, but thinking of some one else. "Why, can’t you see that he does, how he wags his tail every time you even look at him? But I hope poor Conny is here. I should think he would stop, when he finds _darling Clara_ come back." I had jumped to that hope long ago, before we even left Lucas Street, and that had something to do with my walking so fast. No, he was not there, he had not been there to-day. It was my turn now to cry; what might he not have done, after that fearful insult, and from his own father too?