Mortifying, fearfully mortifying the whole thing was, I agree. To be made ridiculous in the eyes of a cashier who touched his hat when he met me in the street and often called me Sir; to be jilted for a lean banker’s clerk whose learning lay in his ledger, the horizon of whose mind was the circle of a sovereign; who wrote like a copy-book, and counted like the sums in Colenso--as accurately, I mean (faugh! I wouldn’t give twopence for such plebeian parts!). Yes, fearfully mortifying all this was. How many years have passed since then? It matters not--but though my waistcoats of that epoch would require another foot added to them to bring the buttons and the button-holes together upon my present dignified figure, I cannot recur to this one great sackcloth-and-ashes experience of mine without feeling my spleen enlarged under my left ribs, and my multifarious perceptions grow jaundiced. God knows whether I should have felt so magnanimously disposed towards the runaway couple had my heart been as much concerned in the matter as it ought to have been. All the morning I was resolving, should my uncle show himself stubborn, to plead their cause and petition his forgiveness. Could I have done this had the injury been deadly? and wouldn’t the injury have been deadly had I adored Conny as I imagined I did? Well, Mr. John Halifax, perhaps I _might_ have shammed a forgiving spirit; I _might_ have acted in such a way, as to make her fancy I bore no grudge. But I didn’t sham, you dear model of a gentleman. I _did_ forgive her, John. Nay, I even congratulated myself that she had put it out of my power to show that since my visit to Thistlewood my sentiments had undergone a change. Had she not run away, I must have transformed my aunt into an implacable enemy by suggesting that I was no longer her daughter’s humble, obedient slave; I should have lost my uncle’s good opinion by exhibiting a character he would mistakenly regard as unstable and even insincere--for though he objected to my marriage with Conny, depend upon it he would not have relished my defection; and lastly, I should have been placed in the extremely awkward position of having to give Conny to know that my love was not based upon that permanent rock of sentiment which I had more than once sworn, with some degree of violence, that it was. In short, fortune had dealt me the very cards I should have chosen from the pack, had choice been given me. I preserved my dignity. I could now turn to Theresa without the faintest chance of being called inconstant. My pride could still enjoy, with undiminished gust, the lamentations my aunt would be certain to raise over her abortive hopes; and I could preserve my credit with Theresa, who, on hearing of Conny’s doings, would instantly account for the surprising change that had come over my dream! My uncle came to the bank at one o’clock, and finding there was little or no business doing, called me into his private office.