Had the volatile Ellen at last relented, that
he walked up and down with that elastic step?
No, no. She had married within six months of
blighting Dick—had married an Honourable by
name, if not by nature; but the title being of
much more consequence than the fact, there is
no need to inquire further. If Dick's prayers
could make her happy, she was supremely blest.

No. Mr. Blorage was excited, because he
was dining in his own new, substantially built,
elegantly furnished, luxuriously ornamented,
house—a house that had been pronounced
perfect—a gem of a house—a house that only
wanted one more thing, to be absolute
perfection. He was dining in it, for the first
time, and he had (though naturally a sober
man), under the pressure of such an extreme
circumstance, drank success to it, and health to
himself, just about once too often. Hence,
thought was running riot in his brain, like an
express engine gone mad. Here was he, at the
good and pleasant age of thirty-five, an
independent gentleman, with fifteen hundred a year,
honestly made, and safely deposited in the only
bank that never breaks—her Majesty's Consols.
Besides, he still held a lucrative and independent
position in the very Bank once so disagreeable
to him. He was not a responsible partner, he
was only the trusted confidential manager.
"For, as to partnerships," thought Dick, "it
would never do for me to lose my money
through the speculations of others. I could
not help Billy, or send little Maude to that
first-rate London school. As to my dear
mother. Old Grobus's legacy (I wonder why he
left it to me?) just fell in, in time to make her
comfortable."

Dick had grown rich, nobody quite knew
how. As he was always helping every one,
perhaps he realised the promise, "Cast thy
bread upon the waters, and it shall return unto
thee a hundred-fold." He had made one or
two fortunate speculations. He had been left
a legacy by old Grobus, a morose brother clerk,
who had never given him a civil word when
alive, but had bequeathed him all he died
worth, remarking in his will that "Richard
Blorage, his heir, would be sure to spend it
better than he could." And Richard Blorage,
first ascertaining that there were no real heirs,
had forthwith purchased one or two waste bits
of land, because the owners wanted to sell them,
and because no one but a good-natured fool would
buy them. No sooner, however, did they become
Dick's than they were discovered to be invaluable.
The railway ran straight through them;
the land was the very thing for building
purposes; and, what was pleasanter than all, no
one envied Dick. Every one said, "Serve Dick
Blorage right; he's a good fellow, and it's his
due."

And when he decided to build himself a new
house on this improved and flourishing estate,
every one, far and near, entered into the scheme.
The plans were shown about, as if the plans were
for a building of public property. The architect
was received everywhere as a friend, the workmen
were looked upon as part of the community.
The house grew, stone by stone, under
the eyes and minute inspection of all the neighbours.
The laying of the foundation-stone was
a popular jubilee; the roofing-in was nearly
followed by a roofing-out, so deafening were
the cheers from the assembled multitude. The
final completion of the structure was so
rapturously hailed by all Dick's friends, that it might
have been supposed Mr. Blorage had privately
intimated to the whole of them, individually
and separately, that he intended to make each
a present of the achieved piece of
architecture.

Of course there was to be a house-warming—
a dinner and a dance; and it was thinking of
this identical fête, to come off the very next
day, that had set Mr. Blorage's thoughts off at
express pace. Not because his dinner was to
be so well appointed, not because his wines (he
knew that a little too well this evening!) were
unexceptionable, not because the music provided
was the best that money could hire, not
because his rooms were beautifully decorated, his
chintzes of the sweetest patterns, his carpets
Axminster and Brussels; but because two out
of the sixty invitations he had issued had been
accepted. Why two? And what two? In the
present excited state of Mr. Blorage's brain, he
could only have answered, "Upon those two
hangs my fate—the fate of my house."

He threw himself into one of those delightful
spring-seated sloping-backed softly-cushioned
arm-chairs, in which our unlucky ancestors never
had the good fortune to repose. He took
another glass of wine, oblivious of having drank
success to his house already rather often.

"So, they both come! Lovely creatures!
Bill doesn't like Fanny; he says she is like Ellen.
Ah, poor Ellen. I don't know which is the
prettier of those two cousins. Billy seems
rather full of Florence. I must find that out;
I must observe him; it would never do to ruin
poor Bill's happiness; I know what unrequited
love is. I am not in love with either of the
cousins at present. I was madly in love with
Ellen, but, you see, I got over it." (Who was
there to see, Mr. Blorage? Ah, that last glass!)
"It certainly is time I married. But I shouldn't
like to be served that way again—as Ellen
served me, I mean. Bill will have it she's
unhappy; I hope not. Bill says I am a great
fool if I ever—if I submit—if, in short, I am
taken in again. Did Ellen take me in? I don't
know. I don't understand women at all. I
believe every word they say; I adore their sweet
smiles and winning ways, and I would not—nay,
I could not—think ill of them for the world. I
suppose I am a fool, as Bill says I am. What a
thing it would be for me if some kind-hearted
honest genius, or fairy, would bestow upon the
walls of my house the gift of making people appear
just as they are, speak just what they think, and
be altogether as God and Nature made them!
When I was young, surely I read of a palace of
truth belonging to some fellow—king, I beg his
pardon—called Phanor. To be sure, they got