Miss CRAVEN (with a little pity for Fermor;
but her voice does reach over the hill). Have
you been quite well, Mr. Fermor?

FERMOR, (glowing, raging, biting his lip, and
not knowing what to do). Good morning, Mrs.
Craven.

Three eager smiles are shaken at him like
three white handkerchiefs, and he gets off the
stage somehow. Looking back, he sees Mr.
Romaine bent, as he leant on the carriage
window, looking after him with a grim smile. If
he had been near, he would have heard Mrs.
Craven say, in answer:

"O, one of the girls' friends. Now, I am told
he has picked up some low creature, and thinks
he is to be all the same. It really is so disagreeable
both for him, and for us!"

"Quite understand," said Mr. Romaine.
"There are fellows who never take a hint."

That was a gloomy walk of Fermor's! "Heartless
set," he said. "They might have recollected
all I have done for them, and all the money they
have cost me. I suppose they think nothing
more is to be got now that I have"—and he
laughed—"done for myself. They are no loss,
at any rate."

Suddenly he thought of his relation, Sir
Hopkins, whom he knew was in town, but whom
he had never yet found time to go and see. Someway
he had rather shrank a little from this meeting,
for he had not consulted him about this
marriage. He was in. It was close on six
o'clock, and Sir Hopkins was writing. He was
still boring into the old diplomatic molehills—
still burrowing, tunnelling, indefatigably. Only
now, as he grew older, the molehills grew
smaller and meaner, and the tunnels narrower.
The awful whisper had even been heard in F. O.
corridors that "old Pocock" was "gone by,"
and younger servants used the word "fogie."
With reference to his last experiment it was said
plainly and firmly: "You know he broke down.
Lord Spendlesham insisted, and they had to give
it to him. He was in one of his mulish fits—
thought they were putting him off—and so fixed
on this. He was very sorry for it afterwards,
though."

When Fermor came in he was in a molehill,
tunnelling away. Letters to one, letters to
the other; to lords, to no lords; to official, to
non-official. Was there a little pin, resting on a
lever, which lay on another lever, which was
one of a thousand other little levers, to move the
great machine—he sent a letter to that pin. Was
there a thread hanging down among a cloud of
threads—was there a loose wire among a million
of loose wires—was there a fly upon the great
wheel—he addressed dismal letters to that
thread, to that wire, and to that fly. He was still
intriguing for office, as he had intrigued forty
years before, that is, calling letters intrigues.

He looked up as Fermor entered, and looked
down. His pen was in the middle of a sentence.
"Sit down," he said; "excuse me." He wrote
on for a minute or two, then stopped.

"Glad to see you," he said, coldly. "How
have you been? Now what is it? What do
you want me to do? I have no interest now,
you know."

"I merely came to see you, sir," said Fermor.

"O, that was it," said the diplomatist, beginning
to write again. "I have not been so well,
lately. To tell you the truth," he added abruptly,
"I am very busy, as you see, and——"

"O, certainly," said Fermor, rising, with a
wounded air; "you need not stand on ceremony
with me, sir."

Sir Hopkins looked at him a moment. "So
you married, it seems. I dare say you find a
change."

Fermor said, "How, sir?" a little doubtfully.

"Why, the life, the attention, the consideration.
I know how soon that comes, unless you
dazzle them with what you have done."

"I don't want to dazzle anybody," said
Fermor, in some confusion.

"No; that was pretty plain," said the other.
"No fear of that. 'Pon my soul, Charles, I had
hoped better things of you; I had indeed. In
plain words, you threw yourself away—you did.
We would have made a man of you, if you had
let us."

"Why, God bless me, sir," said Fermor, with
great warmth. "Did you not advise me
yourself? Did you not get with the father, and keep
saying to me, 'There was a match?' Surely you
remember?"

Sir Hopkins shook his head. "I am sorry to
see this," he said. "You are only a novice after
all. Why, couldn't you see that was all my
foreign ofiice business—setting up one girl to
bring down the other?"

"And you did bring her down," said Fermor,
bitterly. "I believe it had been better for me,
after all, if I had cast my lot with one who loved
me, and who, I believe, died for me, instead of
being made the object of foreign office business,
as you say."

"That was all a matter for your own choice,"
said Sir Hopkins, calmly. "But, to tell you the
truth, I don't like this tone of discussion. On
this occasion I think it right to tell you plainly, to
prevent misconception hereafter"—and Sir
Hopkins paused a little, and looked at him meaningly
—"that I am not pleased. You have taken your
course, and disappointed me; made what I can
only call a low marriage, without connexion or
rank. I don't like the transaction, and I say so,
and I must add, never can like it. You
understand?"

"Well, sir," said Fermor, with a wounded
defiance, "it can't be helped. I am sorry for
it."

"I don't care telling you now that it has been
a disappointment, and a great one to me. I don't
choose to be disappointed. I don't mind telling
you now that I had a girl for you, ready and
waiting—a girl out of our office. Such a
connexion! Good God! What a fool you made of