‘Mine? I have none in the world. He may be the bellman or the lamplighter—by-the-by, these are two far more romantic occupations than what he has chosen—for me. I am rather obliged to him for making the unexpected happen, because, though it always happens, according to Lord Beaconsfield, still, somehow, it sets us talking, and talking—or shall I call it gabbling—is my vocation.’ ‘Don’t you find it tiresome?’ suggested Catherine, with odd _naïveté_. ‘To myself or other people?’ enquired Mrs. Hilliard, unmoved save for the twinkle in her eyes. ‘I can vouch it does not tire me;’ and she used her plump fingers French fashion to help herself to another lump of sugar. ‘I suppose Oliver Constable cares more for making money than for winning success in what is called a learned profession, and securing a social position; that is all it comes to,’ said Catherine, with a little sigh at the smallness of the sacrifice and the result altogether. ‘I am not sure that he may not be right, from his point of view, unless he were to “go in” (Louisa?) for great scholarship or for travelling to the North or the South Pole. You see there are no Eldorados or Asgards left for men to believe in, and go in search of now. Oliver Constable is not a genius, to write an immortal book, or paint a picture which will never be forgotten. I do not know that there is anything so very much better for him to do than honestly add pound to pound, and take his worldly pleasure by counting up his gains at the year’s end.’ ‘My love, what a Mammon-worshipping speech from you, of all people!’ ‘But we don’t seem to be able to keep from worshipping Mammon,’ alleged Catherine, wearily, ‘though we say and perhaps mean that we are worshipping another god; and I am not at all clear that Mrs. Grundy is a more respectable deity than Mammon.’ ‘You can’t accuse me of paying homage at her shrine. But are you not sorry for sister Fan? What was her ultimatum for Oliver? That he should become Lord Chancellor or Archbishop of Canterbury, while she should be Jock the Laird’s sister? What a descent, to be condemned to remain the sister, as she was the daughter, of a well-to-do miller and baker!’ ‘No, I am not sorry,’ said Catherine, with more animation than she had yet shown, for there was a spice of short-lived indignation in the tone. ‘If she could have no higher ambition for her brother than that he should be a barrister or a rector—you know his rising to be so much as a judge or a dean was hardly to be thought of—I have not a spark of pity to spare for Fan Constable’s disappointment.’