"Well, Tommy," he said, looking more perplexed than angry, and taking me by the hand; "you have spoken as a man; and I thank you for it. And you deserve, that I should speak with equal candour. I will not say anything to hurt your feelings, more than may be avoided. As regards money, and character, and education, and kindliness of nature, and warmth of heart, you are all that a man need desire for his sister. But as regards birth--my dear fellow, excuse me, you know that I would not say anything to pain you, about such an accident, if I could help it--there comes the point, which is hard to get over. We Twentifolds do not pretend to be, of royal, or even of noble descent, in the direct line; though we have intermarried often enough with the best blood in England; but this we can say, that for five hundred years, we have always been of the foremost rank of commoners, and baronets, ever since such things were. In the last hundred years, there has only been one taint----" "Oh, let me hear all about that," I exclaimed; "I am truly delighted, that there has been that. Was it in the tallow-line, my dear Roly?" "No, sir, it was not. It was in oil and beeswax," he answered, with a frown which was very like a smile; "the subject is a sore one, and pursuit would make it sorer. You had better ask my mother, what the story is. She tells it, with simplicity and sympathy. But to come back to tallow--as you coarsely put it. Let everything between us be exactly as it was. After what you have done for Laura--who would not be alive, to marry any one, but for you--I shall not attempt to interfere between you. Like the present Government, I shall 'maintain an attitude of masterly inactivity;' which may, or may not, have the usual result--to wit, servile passivity. Not a word about this subject again between us; until I renew it. Also bear in mind one thing,--even if you succeed with my mother, and with Laura, you will not have my consent (without which nothing whatever can come of it) until you have done something great, and glorious, to win the fame, which leaps over all distinctions." CHAPTER XXXIV. _FAMES FAMÆ._ What is a fame, that overleaps distinctions? And how may a poor fellow get hold of it? I knew a man once, who could crackle all his knuckles, like a pair of four-chambered revolvers, and then fire off his wrists, and elbows, like double-barrelled rifles, after them. We called him the "distinguished knuckle-duster;" and he called himself, the "famous artilleryman." Would an exploit of that sort overleap the pride of birth; and endow our humble candles with the winding-sheet of pedigree?