“That’s one’s only chance,” returned Coverdale, “though it is one that, to speak seriously and sensibly, I’ve tolerably strong faith in. A fellow must be wanting in manliness of character, if he cannot contrive to manage a woman by moral force, as you call it; there’s a quiet way of doing that as well as everything else, only it’s such a confoundedly slow process.” “No making ’em to come to the point, eh?” rejoined Hazlehurst; “Well, I have my own ideas about it; how they would work, remains to be proved; but as you’ve such splendid theories on the subject, don’t pretend you’re unfitted for woman’s society. Why, man, you’re equal to a whole seminary of young ladies--your ‘quiet manner’ would prove as irresistible with them as it did with the redoubtable Mr. Styles.” By way of reply to this impertinent allusion, Coverdale shook his clenched fist (which still bore traces of his late encounter) in his friend’s face with a pseudo-threatening gesture. Hazlehurst sprang back in pretended alarm, with to sudden a movement as to arouse the Scotch terrier from his nap, who, waking up in a fright, immediately recurred to his leading idea that there were thieves in the house, and rushed to the door barking furiously. When the laughter, which this little incident excited, had in some degree abated, Hazlehurst resumed-- “But seriously, Harry, I want you to come home with me, and I’ll tell you in confidence why. You and I have known each other from the time we were schoolboys together, and though, as _in re_ Styles, you act a little hastily sometimes, there is no man on whose clear judgment and high principle I’ve greater reliance than on yours. I’ve received a letter from home this morning, which has annoyed me more than I can tell you. To come to the point at once, the case stands thus:--My father’s pet weakness (rather a creditable one) is family pride; now the Grange has belonged to the Hazlehursts for the last three hundred years, but in my great-grandfather’s time the estate became woefully diminished--the old scamp was a regular wild one, and not only made ducks and drakes of everything he could lay his hands on, but as soon as my grandfather came of age, induced him to cut on the entail, and sold the best half of the family property; some of this my grandfather contrived to redeem in his lifetime, and my Governor has been scheming and screwing all his days in order to buy back the rest. In an evil hour he was induced to invest his savings in a railroad, hoping to attain his object sooner; of course it paid beautifully at first; of course in due time a crash came, and the Pater not only lost all his savings, but was forced to sell a farm of five hundred acres, dear to him as the apple of his eye. The individual who purchased it, and who owns the property my great-grandfather sold, is a certain millionaire cotton spinner, as rich as Crœsus; the fellow is said to have £20,000 a-year. Well, since the railroad affair, a jolly