"Some of us will prepare that little note, I dare say--I fear so, Mr. Haveril," Cousin Charles went on. "In business, as you know, the introduction of capital is not a gift nor a charity; but I will explain later on, when these have gone." "Not without you," said the lady pew-opener, planting her umbrella firmly on the carpet. There was so much determination in her face that Cousin Charles quailed; he bent, he bowed, he submitted. "On another, a more favourable occasion, then, when we can be private," he said. "Good-bye, Cousin Alice. You look younger than ever. Ah, if these friends present could remember you as I can, in the spring-time of youth and beauty, among the laurels and the laburnums and the lilacs of Hoxton Square! Love's young dream, cousin; love's young dream." He grasped her hand, his voice vibrating with emotion. "Alice," he said, "on Sunday evenings we gather round us a little circle at South Hackney. Intellect and respectability. Supper at eight. I shall hope to see you there soon and often." He then seized Mr. Haveril's hand. "If I may, sir--if I may." "You may, sir--you may." He held out a hand immovable, like a sign-post. "As men of business--men of business--we shall understand each other." "Very like, very like," said Mr. Haveril, with distressing coldness. He had fallen into his third manner, and his eyes were far off. He spoke mechanically. Cousin Charles clapped his hat on his head and walked out. He was followed by the lady pew-opener, who called out after him over the broad balustrade-- "You and your respectability, indeed! Go and sweat your shop-girls! You and your respectability!" CHAPTER IX. ONE MORE. "They are all gone, John," said Alice. "Oh, what a visit! I am ashamed! I never thought my people could have gone on so! As for Cousin Charles, he's just dreadful!" One was left. The unfortunate bankrupt, overcome by the champagne, was asleep in his chair. John Haveril dragged him up by the collar. "Now then, you, sir! What do you mean by going to sleep here?" The unfortunate rubbed his eyes and pulled himself together. Presently he remembered where he was. "Cousin Alice," he said, "are we alone?" He whispered confidentially. "They all want your money--particularly Charles. He's the most grasping, greedy, cheeseparing, avaricious, unscrupulous, bully of a cousin that ever had a place of business. Don't give him anything. Give it to me. I'm starving, Alice. I haven't eaten anything all day. It's true. I've got no work and no money." "John, give him something." "It's no good," said John. "He'll only eat it, and then ask for more." "But give him something. Let him eat it." John plunged his hand into his pocket. After the manner of the eighteenth century, it was full of gold. "Well, take it." He transferred a handful to the clutch of the poor wretch. "Take it. Go and eat it up. And don't come back for more."