this occasion, than in what I said to my niece's maid.
Amusing perversity!

"I should feel very much obliged to you, sir,
if you would kindly tell me what I had better
do," remarked the Young Person.

"Let things stop as they are," I said, adapting
my language to my listener. " / invariably
let things stop as they are. Yes. Is that all?"

"If you think it would be a liberty in me,
sir, to write, of course I wouldn't venture to do
so. But I am so very anxious to do all I can
to serve my mistress faithfully——"

People in the lower class of life never know
when or how to go out of a room. They
invariably require to be helped out by their betters.
I thought it high time to help the Young Person
out. I did it with two judicious words:

"Good morning!"

Something, outside or inside this singular
girl, suddenly creaked. Louis, who was looking
at her (which I was not) says she creaked when
she curtseyed. Curious. Was it her shoes, her
stays, or her bones? Louis thinks it was her
stays. Most extraordinary!

As soon as I was left by myself, I had a little
nap—I really wanted it. When I awoke again,
I noticed dear Marian's letter. If I had had the
least idea of what it contained, I should certainly
not have attempted to open it. Being,
unfortunately for myself, quite innocent of all
suspicion, I read the letter. It immediately upset
me for the day.

I am, by nature, one of the most easy-tempered
creatures that ever lived—I make allowances
for everybody, and I take offence at
nothing. But, as I have before remarked, there
are limits to my endurance. I laid down Marian's
letter, and felt myself—justly felt myself—an
injured man.

I am about to make a remark. It is, of course,
applicable to the very serious matter now under
notice— or I should not allow it to appear in
this place.

Nothing, in my opinion, sets the odious selfishness
of mankind in such a repulsively vivid light,
as the treatment, in all classes of society, which
the Single people receive at the hands of the
Married people. When you have once shown
yourself too considerate and self-denying to add
a family of your own to an already overcrowded
population, you are vindictively marked out, by
your married friends, who have no similar
consideration and no similar self-denial, as the
recipient of half their conjugal troubles, and the
born friend of all their children. Husbands and
wives talk of the cares of matrimony; and
bachelors and spinsters bear them. Take my
own ease. I considerately remain single; and
my poor dear brother, Philip, inconsiderately
marries. What does he do when he dies? He
leaves his daughter to me. She is a sweet girl.
She is also a dreadful responsibility. Why
lay her on my shoulders? Because I am bound,
in the harmless character of a single man, to
relieve my married connexions of all their own
troubles. I do my best with my brother's
responsibility; I marry my niece, with infinite fuss and
difficulty, to the man her father wanted her to
marry. She and her husband disagree, and
unpleasant consequences follow. What does
she do with those consequences? She transfers
them to me. Why transfer them to me?
Because I am bound, in the harmless character of
a single man, to relieve my married connexions
of all their own troubles. Poor single people!
Poor human nature!

It is quite unnecessary to say that Marian's
letter threatened me. Everybody threatens me.
All sorts of horrors were to fall on my devoted
head, if I hesitated to turn Limmeridge House
into an asylum for my niece and her misfortunes.
I did hesitate, nevertheless.

I have mentioned that my usual course,
hitherto, had been to submit to dear Marian,
and save noise. But, on this occasion, the
consequences involved in her extremely inconsiderate
proposal, were of a nature to make me pause.
If I opened Limmeridge House as an asylum to
Lady Glyde, what security had I against Sir
Percival Glyde's following her here, in a state of
violent resentment against me for harbouring his
wife? I saw such a perfect labyrinth of troubles
involved in this proceeding, that I determined to
feel my ground, as it were. I wrote, therefore, to
dear Marian, to beg (as she had no husband to lay
claim to her) that she would come here by
herself, first, and talk the matter over with me. If
she could answer my objections to my own
perfect satisfaction, then I assured her that I
would receive our sweet Laura with the greatest
pleasure—but not otherwise. I felt, of course,
at the time, that this temporising, on my part,
would probably end in bringing Marian here in
a state of virtuous indignation, banging doors.
But, then, the other course of proceeding might
end in bringing Sir Percival here in a state of
virtuous indignation, banging doors also; and,
of the two indignations and bangings, I preferred
Marian's—because I was used to her. Accordingly,
I despatched the letter by return of post.
It gained me time, at all events—and, oh dear
me! what a point that was to begin with.

When I am totally prostrated (did I mention
that I was totally prostrated by Marian's letter?),
it always takes me three days to get up again.
I was very unreasonable—I expected three days
of quiet. Of course, I didn't get them.

The third day's post brought me a most
impertinent letter from a person with whom I was
totally unacquainted. He described himself, as
the acting partner of our man of business—our
dear, pig-headed old Gilmore—and he informed
me that he had lately received, by the post, a
letter addressed to him in Miss Halcombe's
handwriting. On opening the envelope, he had
discovered, to his astonishment, that it contained
nothing but a blank sheet of note paper. This
circumstance appeared to him so suspicious (as
suggesting to his restless legal mind that the
letter had been tampered with) that he had at
once written to Miss Halcombe, and had
received no answer by return of post. In this
difficulty, instead of acting like a sensible man