“Talking of the newspapers, Sir,” said Mr. Bates, putting down his, “what do you think of the present crisis? What’s things coming to? There’s Rooshia threatening in the East, and as for your Khedivys and that sort, I don’t believe in them. We’ll all be in a precious hobble if we don’t look out, as far as I can see.” “There, there, Bates, none of your politics,” cried his wife; “once begin that, and nobody can get in a word--and the gentleman is just off a journey.” Young Curtis sat uneasily while all this went on, like a dog in leash, watching his opportunity to start. The sudden insight which had come to him with the entrance of his friend upon this scene was strange, and very painful. He was very much in love, poor young fellow, and when a man is in love, it is curious how easily he can accept the circumstances of his beloved and find them natural. Matilda and Sarah Jane had only amused him before, as, indeed, they amused the new-comer now; but the family changed its aspect entirely as the young man, who was almost a member of it, realized to himself how it must appear to his friend, and saw the whole scene, as it were, through Durant’s eyes. Durant’s eyes, however, staring vaguely upon this slowly comprehended new world, did not see half so clearly or so sharply as Arthur’s saw through them. He gave double force and meaning to the other’s observations, and beheld through him many things which the other did not see. Fortunately--and how fortunate that was Arthur did not venture to say to himself--Nancy, who was affronted, did not open her mouth. He adored her, and yet he was glad she was affronted, notwithstanding the pain it gave him. He could not bear to vex or alienate her for a moment, and yet he was thankful not to be obliged to see her too with his friend’s eyes. But he saw all the rest, and the _ensemble_ of the room, the village flirt Sarah Jane, and the lout Charley, and Mr. Bates with his slippers, and felt how stuffy it was, and the smell of the rum. His endurance had come to a climax when Mr. Bates began to talk a little thickly of politics. Once more he sprang to his feet. “I know Durant has something to say to me,” he cried. “I think I must ask you to excuse me to-night, Mrs. Bates. Everything must give way to business.” “Lord bless you, my dear, not of an evening,” said the genial woman. “Don’t ye go. Supper’s coming. You know all our ways, and I daresay your friend--Mr. Durant is it? and how do you do, Mr. Durant, now I know you?--I daresay he’ll put up with us for your sake. Go you and hurry the supper, Sarah Jane.” “We’ll have to go, really,” said poor Arthur; and he stooped to his sullen love and whispered, “Don’t be angry. He comes from my father. Though I can’t bear to leave you, darling, I must hear what my father says.” “Oh, indeed, your father!” said Nancy. “I see what it is; it is just what I have always told you. You’re ashamed of me and my folks, as soon as you get hold of one of your fine friends.”