you to elicit it for me, my love,” to Mrs Veneering, “as I have lost my own influence. Oh, you perjured man!” This to Mortimer, with a rattle of her fan.

“We are all very much interested in the man from Somewhere,” Veneering observes.

Then the four Buffers, taking heart of grace all four at once, say:

And then Mrs Veneering — for Lady Tippins’s winning wiles are contagious — folds her hands in the manner of a supplicating child, turns to her left neighbour, and says, “Tease! Pay! Man from Tumwhere!” At which the four Buffers, again mysteriously moved all four at once, exclaim, “You can’t resist!”

“Upon my life,” says Mortimer languidly, “I find it immensely embarrassing to have the eyes of Europe upon me to this extent, and my only consolation is that you will all of you execrate Lady Tippins in your secret hearts when you find, as you inevitably will, the man from Somewhere a bore. Sorry to destroy romance by fixing him with a local habitation, but he comes from the place, the name of which escapes me, but will suggest itself to everybody else here, where they make the wine.”

Eugene suggests “Day and Martin’s.”

“No, not that place,” returns the unmoved Mortimer, “that’s where they make the Port. My man comes from the country where they make the Cape Wine. But look here, old fellow; it’s not at all statistical and it’s rather odd.”

It is always noticeable at the table of the Veneerings, that no man troubles himself much about the Veneerings themselves, and that any one who has anything to tell, generally tells it to anybody else in preference.

“The man,” Mortimer goes on, addressing Eugene, “whose name is Harmon, was only son of a tremendous old rascal who made his money by Dust.”

“Red velveteens and a bell?” the gloomy Eugene inquires.

“And a ladder and basket if you like. By which means, or by others, he grew rich as a Dust Contractor, and lived in a hollow in a hilly country entirely composed of Dust. On his own small estate the growling old vagabond threw up his own mountain range, like an old volcano, and its geological formation was Dust. Coal-dust, vegetable-dust, bone-dust, crockery dust, rough dust and sifted dust, — all manner of Dust.”

A passing remembrance of Mrs Veneering, here induces Mortimer to address his next half-dozen words to her; after which he wanders away again, tries Twemlow and finds he doesn’t answer, ultimately takes up with the Buffers who receive him enthusiastically.

“The moral being — I believe that’s the right expression — of this exemplary person, derived its highest gratification from anathematizing his nearest relations and turning them out of doors. Having begun (as was natural) by rendering these attentions to the wife of his bosom, he next found himself at leisure to bestow a similar recognition on the claims of his daughter. He chose a husband for her, entirely to his own satisfaction and not in the least to hers, and proceeded to settle upon her, as her marriage portion, I don’t know how much Dust, but something immense. At this stage of the affair the poor girl respectfully intimated that she was secretly engaged to that popular character whom the novelists and versifiers call Another, and that such a marriage would make Dust of her heart and Dust of her life — in short, would set her up, on a very extensive scale, in her father’s business. Immediately, the venerable parent — on a cold winter’s night, it is said — anathematized and turned her out.”