Novelists, it is said, are thought much of by young reporters on the provincial press. The secret of true happiness is to turn away from beholding those who are better off than ourselves, and keep the gaze steadily fixed on those who are worse off; and this secret Alderman Dobbin had mastered. Free from that itching to grovel to some one above him which torments so many unfortunate people, he was satisfied with being grovelled to by his inferiors. Thus it was that he had been able to live in the enjoyment of his own greatness without envying that of others. There might be such persons as dukes and archbishops in the world--he was Alderman Dobbin. So much the greater was the shock administered to his mind by the unveiled disrespect of the vicar. The alderman’s evangelical zeal had received a new edge; and, at the same time, by a natural chain of cause and effect, he was in a mood peculiarly susceptible to the blandishments of one of those magnates of the earth before whom even Oxford divines are but as dust. Such a one was even now approaching the aldermanic dwelling. A sound of horses’ hoofs and carriage wheels aroused the nodding alderman, and drew him hastily to the window. He beheld a carriage and pair of the most brilliant lustre drawing up in front of his door, and a woman of stately presence looking out, while a liveried footman ascended the steps and rang the bell. The excited master of the house could scarcely refrain from bursting out into the hall, to anticipate the lagging motions of the housemaid. At last that young female, having arranged her cap to her satisfaction, could be heard flouncing past the dining-room door. A short colloquy followed, and the occupant of the carriage emerged, attended by a fashionably dressed gentleman, and entered the house. There was a sound of doors opening and shutting. Finally, the housemaid came to her impatient master. “A lady by the name of Seven, and a gentleman, to see you, sir.” “Seven?” The alderman reflected for a moment, and then his eye fell on a card of invitation which had occupied a prominent place on the mantel-piece and in his thoughts for several days past. “You mean Lady Severn,” he cried out--“the Marchioness of Severn!” “Yes, sir; ‘Lady Severn’ was what she said, sir.” The alderman cast a glance of despair at his trousers. “Run and get me the clothes-brush. No--I must change--there isn’t time! Here, run up-stairs and get me my Sunday coat, while I brush these things.” The marchioness and her companion, seated in the drawing-room, were aware of a commotion outside. “I am afraid we have thrown the establishment into confusion,” the gentleman remarked. “These sort of people always lose their heads if any one comes to see them unexpectedly,” the marchioness responded. “I suppose they never visit each other; their houses are too small.”