“Mary Pinhorn,” exclaims the other, “what’s the use of going on with this game? You know we couldn’t be a-happy together—you know your ideers ain’t no good, Mary. It ain’t your fault. _I_ don’t blame you for it, my dear. Some people are born clever, some are born tall: I ain’t tall.” “Oh, you’re tall enough for me, Richard!” Here Richard again found occasion to cry out: “_Don’t_, I say! Suppose Baker was to come in and find you squeezing of my hand in this way? I say, some people are born with big brains, Miss Pinhorn, and some with big figures. Look at that ass Bulkeley, Lady B.’s man! He is as big as a Life-guardsman, and he has no more education, nor no more ideas, than the beef he feeds on.” “La! Richard, whathever do you mean?” “Pooh! How should _you_ know what I mean? Lay them books straight. Put the volumes together, stupid! and the papers, and get the table ready for nussery tea, and don’t go on there mopping your eyes and making a fool of yourself, Mary Pinhorn!” “Oh, your heart is a stone—a stone—a stone!” cries Mary, in a burst of tears. “And I wish it was hung round my neck, and I was at the bottom of the well, and—there’s the hupstairs bell!” with which signal I suppose Mary disappeared, for I only heard a sort of grunt from Mr. Bedford; then the clatter of a dish or two, the wheeling of chairs and furniture, and then came a brief silence, which lasted until the entry of Dick’s subordinate Buttons, who laid the table for the children’s and Miss Prior’s tea. So here was an old story told over again. Here was love unrequited, and a little passionate heart wounded and unhappy. My poor little Mary! As I am a sinner, I will give thee a crown when I go away, and not a couple of shillings, as my wont has been. Five shillings will not console thee much, but they will console thee a little. Thou wilt not imagine that I bribe thee with any privy thought of evil? Away! _Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück—ich habe—geliebt!_ At this juncture I suppose Mrs. Prior must have entered the apartment, for though I could not hear her noiseless step, her little cracked voice came pretty clearly to me with a “Good afternoon, Mr. Bedford! O dear me! what a many—many years we have been acquainted. To think of the pretty little printer’s boy who used to come to Mr. Batchelor, and see you grown such a fine man!” _Bedford._ “How? I’m only five foot four.” _Mrs. P._ “But such a fine figure, Bedford! You are—now indeed you are! Well, you are strong and I am weak. You are well, and I am weary and faint.” _Bedford._ “The tea’s a-coming directly, Mrs. Prior.” _Mrs. P._ “Could you give me a glass of water first—and perhaps a little sherry in it, please. Oh, thank you. How good it is! How it revives a poor old wretch!—And your cough, Bedford? How is your cough? I have brought you some lozenges for it—some of Sir Henry Halford’s own prescribing for my dear husband, and——” _Bedford_ (abruptly). “I must go—never mind the cough now, Mrs. P.”