At home, dinner was on the table, waiting for him. As he entered the hall, he met his sister-in-law. She saw the fatal news in his face, and with a sinking heart gave him her usual greeting. Marcia took her place at the table, but with less animation than usual. Charles sat down with his studied indifference. Each one seemed to be absorbed in separate spheres of thought, and the courses came on and were removed in painful silence. At last Mr. Sandford spoke. "I suppose I need not tell you that it is all over." "All over!" exclaimed Marcia. "Yes,--I have failed; so has Fayerweather; so has Stearine." "Failed?" said Marcia, in an incredulous tone. "I thought it was the great people,--I mean people in business, or with estates, that failed." "Well, have I not been in business?" "Yes,--as secretary, and you have a salary. How can a man with a salary fail?" "Quite easily. Suppose the Vortex fails? My salary would stop." "That isn't failing, is it? Then Pompey might fail, if he didn't get his pay for brushing your boots." Mr. Sandford gave a contemptuous look. "That shows how much you know about business." "I never did know about your business; nor does anybody, I believe. I never could understand how, with your little property, you had these 'transactions,' as you call them, where you owed people and people owed you so many thousands." "It is not necessary for you to know. Women can't understand these things." "But women feel their effects, and it's a pity they could not learn about what concerns them." "Will it change your situation at once?" asked Mrs. Sandford of her brother. "I can't say; probably not at once; but without some aid, all I have must go." "What! the house?" exclaimed Marcia. "Yes,--the house, Marcia, and the furniture. We shall be stripped." "The deuse!" said Charles. "Heaven help us! what shall we do?" "I haven't had time to form any plan. I trust, indeed, that Heaven will help us, as you rather lightly wished." His face wore a touching look of faith and resignation, while at the same time his hand rested with secret satisfaction upon his pocket-book. The conversation was disagreeable to Charles, and he sauntered off to the drawing-room. Mrs. Sandford inwardly determined to return to her home, or at least to go elsewhere in the city, so as not to be a burden to her brother-in-law; but she remained silent. Mr. Sandford balanced his knife, sliced his bread into figures, then hummed and beat a tattoo upon the table,--sure indications of forgetfulness in one so scrupulous as he. At length, with a bland voice, but a sharp, inquiring eye, he said,-- "How is it about this painter, Marcia? Are you going to marry him?" She looked fixedly, as she replied,-- "Why do you ask? You know I am going to marry him." "Oh, it's settled, is it? You know, sister, you have had similar intentions before,--several times, in fact,--intentions that haven't come to much."