And his tongue being loosened, he proceeded to inquire after the business that had been transacted at the bank during his absence. We were now upon a subject in which Curling would feel at home, and heartily sorry for the poor fellow whose position was, on the whole, as unenviable as any mortal man was ever placed in, I contrived to address some observations to him, which he answered with great diffidence. I then, from a laudable desire to diffuse a more pleasing social atmosphere than then overhung us, spoke to my aunt, taking care, on receiving her reply, to appeal to Conny. But my well-meant effort failed. My aunt was so dogged and tearful, I might as well have tried to set the pendulum of a clock wagging when the spring was broken, as have attempted to get her to be cheerful. “We make a happy family party, don’t we,” said she to me with a ghastly smile. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” I replied. “I for one am quite disposed to be comfortable,” and I looked at Conny. “Ah!” said my aunt with a severe nod, “you are not a mother, Charlie.” “No,” said I, “and I really hope there is no chance of my ever becoming one.” Mr. Curling grinned faintly. Conny looked at me askew, as if she wondered how I could find the heart to be funny. “Come, come, don’t let us get personal,” exclaimed my uncle. “What I told Conny and her husband in London I will repeat here; they have chosen to act foolishly and cruelly; but greatly as they have made us suffer, it is our duty, now that the action is irreparable, not only to wish to see them happy, but to strive to make them so. It is too late to show any temper, and all reproaches must be idle and foolish.” “Ay, but flesh and blood must speak!” cried out my aunt. “I regret the grief and pain I have caused you and Mrs. Hargrave,” said Curling. “But when I remember what I owe you, sir, when I know that I am not incapable of gratitude, and that the character I have always borne has been that of a man whom it needs a great deal to divert from the straight line of his duty, I think, I--I say I think at least--you, I mean--that is you should find in my elopement a proof--yes, a proof, Mrs. Hargrave, of my love for your daughter and--and--an endorsement--that is, a guarantee, I mean for--of--for our future--for her future happiness.” Uttering which he threw a damp glance round the room. Is that the genuine language of the heart, thought I? But suppose he _had_ rehearsed the passage, what other kind of eloquence than gasps and expletives is to be expected from a man in his situation. “It ought never to have taken place,” cried Mrs. Hargrave. “Oh, mamma!” exclaimed Conny, “you are too severe, we are all to blame.” I glanced at her pale face and thought, “Ah! She might have had _me_ once. There would have been no hysterics then. Nothing but congratulations and new dresses.” “WE!” shrieked my aunt. “Did _I_ ask you to elope with Mr. Theodore?” “For heaven’s sake--!” interposed my uncle.