Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe, the squire of Caversham in Suffolk, and of Pickering Park in Sussex, was closeted on a certain morning for the best part of an hour with Mr. Melmotte in Abchurch Lane, had there discussed all his private affairs, and was about to leave the room with a very dissatisfied air. There are men,--and old men too, who ought to know the world,--who think that if they can only find the proper Medea to boil the cauldron for them, they can have their ruined fortunes so cooked that they shall come out of the pot fresh and new and unembarrassed. These great conjurors are generally sought for in the City; and in truth the cauldrons are kept boiling though the result of the process is seldom absolute rejuvenescence. No greater Medea than Mr. Melmotte had ever been potent in money matters, and Mr. Longestaffe had been taught to believe that if he could get the necromancer even to look at his affairs everything would be made right for him. But the necromancer had explained to the squire that property could not be created by the waving of any wand or the boiling of any cauldron. He, Mr. Melmotte, could put Mr. Longestaffe in the way of realising property without delay, of changing it from one shape into another, or could find out the real market value of the property in question; but he could create nothing. "You have only a life interest, Mr. Longestaffe." "No; only a life interest. That is customary with family estates in this country, Mr. Melmotte." "Just so. And therefore you can dispose of nothing else. Your son, of course, could join you, and then you could sell either one estate or the other." "There is no question of selling Caversham, sir. Lady Pomona and I reside there." "Your son will not join you in selling the other place?" "I have not directly asked him; but he never does do anything that I wish. I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease for my life." "I think not, Mr. Longestaffe. My wife would not like the uncertainty."