The merchant came down to breakfast cheerily, with a deceptive thin veneer of health. He sat at his table assuming the airs of old (Cosmo had long been gone); he opened his correspondence envelope by envelope. The first, second, and third, were circulars; the fourth was a wedding card, the fifth a prospectus; he saw next Mr Abbott’s handwriting, and his mind changed, darkened, and grew cold, as does a plain in early summer when a snow cloud comes above it from the hills. He opened the envelope and read these words:— “MY DEAR BURDEN, “I don’t mind your being hand and glove with a greasy German Jew, nor your toadying a jointed hop-pole like that bankrupt Benthorpe; and as for Cosmo coming into my office and threatening me, I only mind just so much as to prevent him ever coming there again. But what I will not have is that any of your dirty gang should interfere with my business; and if another ship of mine goes wrong in any way, I warn you, and you can warn your Lords and your Jews and your Cabinet Ministers, that I will sink the cost of another ship in smashing the lot of you. I write to you because you are the only one I know, and you may take it from me that I shall not write again.” Such was the letter. There are many things in this mad scrawl which I should digress a moment to ridicule and condemn, were it not more germane to the spirit of my record to pass them by in contemptuous silence. But there is one phrase which I cannot treat with the neglect it deserves. I mean the phrase about Lord Benthorpe. The abominable meanness in a man of Mr Abbott’s wealth harping on the poverty of a superior is not my theme: it is enough to say that, had the cases been reversed, Lord Benthorpe would never have descended to expose the misfortunes of Mr Abbott. I have rather to comment upon the word “bankrupt.” By the time the matter comes into court, it is probable (considering the dilatory habits of Mr and Mrs O’Rourke) that my work will be regarded as the standard account of Mr Burden’s life. I am in possession of this precious epistle. It is before my eyes as I write, and I desire to put it publicly, with all my special knowledge of the circumstances, at the service of the perfect gentleman whom he has wronged. Mr Abbott will find, I think, that our English law of libel is strong enough and flexible enough to punish most heavily the use of such a term. His lordship never has passed, nor, please God! ever shall pass, through the Bankruptcy Court. Of his unfortunate lack of means I have already spoken—I trust as delicately as possible—nor have I concealed from my readers the ready help and sympathy he received from his friends in the financial world. But between honourable poverty and defalcation, both English law and English sense draw a sharp line, as the slanderer will discover to his cost.